The Third Day
by Wilusa
Summary: Explanations begin! Duncan MacLeod is now a much older Immortal. His Watcher has become a close friend. Little do they know that their rambling conversation will have a major impact on the world.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: _Highlander_ and its canon characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions or a successor corporation; no copyright infringement is intended.

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"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

He spoke those words aloud, even though no one was within earshot.

Spoke them aloud _because_ no one was within earshot.

Smiling inwardly, he repeated the phrase - trying, this time, to reproduce the thick Scottish burr of his youth.

"Oy'm Duncan MacLeod o' the Clan MacLeod!"

_Yes._ The accent might have been exaggerated; but he'd captured the brash, innocent overconfidence of the Highland lad he'd been. Ready to take on anyone, at a moment's notice, in defense of that beloved clan.

_It's a wonder I didn't have my first death a decade before I did._

Sitting on a hilltop in his native Britain - a region he hadn't visited in many, many years - he felt achingly close to his roots.

Still, he couldn't help being amused by his reason for being there.

_I have a topsy-turvy life._

_Watchers are supposed to be lurking in the shadows. Doggedly following Immortals in our mysterious travels._

_But here I am, good-naturedly tagging along with my Watcher on __**his**__ business trip! Making contacts on behalf of his wife's well-to-do family, no less._

_Okay, admit it. I like the guy because he reminds me of the first Watcher I knew and treasured as a friend, Joe Dawson. Is it just because he has a form of the same name? There's no physical resemblance. But could he possibly be...another incarnation...?_

Despite the men's friendship, MacLeod needed his times alone.

He'd just worked out with sword and staff, performed an elegant _kata_. Rejoicing, as always, in his perfect physical coordination. Striving, as always, to achieve an equally perfect harmony of mind and body. He never quite got there. But there was joy in the striving, joy in coming close.

Now he was content to sit for a few minutes on the hilltop.

_I was born and raised hundreds of miles north of here. But I knew this area, too._

He'd chosen this site for his _kata_ because he was sure his younger self had climbed this very hill (not much of a "climb," in any era), sat in this very spot. Under a tree...that wasn't here now, of course.

The view from the hill was different, too. Very different. But to MacLeod, it was just as beautiful. (At this stage of his life, he tended to see beauty everywhere. How could anyone _not_ appreciate such a magnificent world?)

Nevertheless, he closed his eyes. He couldn't - and didn't want to - dispel the memories of his youth. And he could bring them into better focus with his eyes closed.

_I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod..._

_Joe Dawson "accompanied" __**me**__ - uninvited! - the first time I returned to my home village of Glenfinnan. I was only a few years past my four hundredth birthday..._

Dawson had not, of course, known a four hundredth birthday of his own. But he _had_ celebrated his ninety-fifth before dying, unexpectedly, in his sleep. He'd been in good health till the end - had even been Duncan MacLeod's Watcher till the end. That had been feasible because MacLeod told him everything that was going on in his life; all Joe had to do was write it up for the Chronicle.

Joe's daughter Amy had reconciled with him when she had a child of her own, and realized Joe was that child's only living grandparent. Later, MacLeod had been diligently Watched by several generations of Joe's descendants.

Joe Dawson belonged to the same era as _Tessa_. But MacLeod thought of her every day and every night, wherever he might be. Countless women had shared his bed; but he'd never again considered marriage. He still thought of Tessa - the first mortal lover he'd told of his Immortality, the only woman he'd lived with longer than a year - as the great love of his life.

Britain brought back other memories. Of companions long absent from that life.

_**Fitz...**_

The most cherished ''buddy" he'd ever had. Dead way too soon, by Immortal standards...and killed _because_ he was a friend of Duncan MacLeod.

_Would he, really, have died even before then if he hadn't known me? Or have I imagined that, to absolve myself?_

_Either way, I couldn't have lived with myself if I hadn't avenged his death, taken the Quickening of the Immortal who'd taken his. Some small part of Fitz does live on, in a way, within me. And I won't __**allow**__ the shade of Kalas that kind of survival._

_**Connor...**_

He'd never learned Connor's fate, never seen or heard news of him after they'd celebrated his "resurrection" in Rachel MacLeod's inn.

Over the years, he'd come to believe Joe had been right in speculating that Connor's subspecies had a real, biological imperative to fight one another to the death - but wrong in thinking last-survivor Connor had won as a "Prize" absolute, literal immortality.

_Eternal existence, in a human body, would make no sense. The person would ultimately wind up "temporarily dead," floating in space, with there being no habitat - none, anywhere in the Universe - that could support a living, breathing human. And we don't even have dreams when we're "temporarily dead." Some "immortality"!_

No, there'd never been a "Prize" beyond having the Quickenings of all members of that small subspecies. So _Connor_ must have been right in speculating he'd come back to life because he'd been cremated, and the ashes kept together. By a big stretch of his imagination, MacLeod could conceive of mutation's producing a life-form that could reconstitute itself from ashes.

_If that happened a few times long ago, it might account for the myth of the phoenix._

_As for Connor, I'm glad I don't know more than I do. Whatever he himself wanted, __**I**__ want always to think of him as being "out there, somewhere."_

_**Amanda...**_

He could never think of Amanda without smiling.

He'd known her, too, since he was a young Immortal in Britain. But centuries later, he and his friend Nick Wolfe had both loved her, in their different ways...and she'd loved both of them.

MacLeod and Amanda had been old enough Immortals at the time that they were comfortable with nonexclusive sexual relationships (given that no one was being deceived). The younger Nick was _un_comfortable, despite his attempts to hide it.

No problem, MacLeod had thought. He'd simply backed off - been perfectly willing, at that point, to dial his relationship with Amanda back to "platonic."

_I didn't exactly love Amanda "less" than I'd loved Tessa. But it was a different kind of love._

Unfortunately, Nick had realized why MacLeod had backed off. And that had made him even more uncomfortable.

In the end, Amanda had bidden both of them a cheery farewell...and "ridden off into the sunset" with her _first_ Immortal lover, Jeremy Dexter.

_Maybe he __**was**__ the right match for her. A pair of rogues! I like to imagine them, too, as being happily "out there, somewhere." Getting themselves into - and out of - a new scrape every week._

_**Darius...**_

The mentor who'd taught him the most valuable lessons of his life. The _friend_ whose loss he most mourned.

_I owe him even more than I knew, when I imagined he'd be in Paris forever._ Years after Darius's death, he'd been told how the Immortal priest had learned through dreams that Methos was in danger...journeyed to Scotland to warn him...and helped Methos realize the child his wife, Margaret MacLeod, was carrying in her womb was indeed his.

_He had to know - from the name MacLeod, and what I told him about when and where I was born - that I was Methos's son. And that I had a special destiny - though he may not have known it involved Ahriman, or anything beyond thwarting Roland Kantos. There was no way he could have prepared me for __**any**__ "special destiny," so he kept silent about whatever he did know._

He still grieved over Darius's death at the hands of mortals - renegade Watchers - in 1993.

But he wondered, now, whether destiny had been at work even then. Only a decade later, the Watchers - and MacLeod - had learned nothing calamitous happened when Quickenings were taken on holy ground. MacLeod and the few Immortal friends he told had kept it to themselves. But there were, inevitably, leaks from within the Watchers' organization. By the time another decade had passed, holy ground was no longer a refuge. No Immortal cleric was safe.

_Even if Darius had been willing to do what I do now - fight in self-defense, but not take heads - he wouldn't have lasted long. He hadn't used a sword for over a thousand years. And he probably wouldn't have let me help him get back in shape. Wouldn't have wanted to be a good enough swordsman that he might be tempted to kill._

_What knowledge, what dangerous powers, might have passed to some cruel, ruthless Immortal with his Quickening?_

_He believed he'd been changed for the better when he took the Quickening of that ancient holy man, Ludovic, at the gates of Paris. But he'd been a decent person to begin with, bent on conquest because soldiering was the only life he'd ever known. There's no guarantee a transfer of __**his**__ Quickening would have worked the same way._

Not even those reflections could ease MacLeod's grief over Darius's death.

Nevertheless, the _name_ "Darius" brought a happier thought to mind.

_His namesake. My first grandson!_

The last MacLeod had heard from Richie and his son Dare, they'd been together, hard at work on a project they'd described as "exciting and challenging."

_Can't imagine either of them doing anything __**not**__ "exciting and challenging,"_ he thought with a smile. _Sit around and reminisce? No way! If they saw me now, they'd tease me about getting lazy in my old age._

But he knew he had to delve deeper into his "homeland" memories. Face the ones that were most painful.

_I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod_...

But until he'd dealt with Kanwulf (temporarily), he'd brought nothing but grief and shame to that clan.

_If Ian MacLeod hadn't been clan chieftain - and even as it was, if he hadn't publicly denied I was their son! - he and my adoptive mother might have met the same fate as Connor's adoptive mother. Been burned at the stake for having spawned a "demon" child._

He shuddered at that thought.

_At least I understand, now, why Debra Campbell's parents promised her to my cousin Robert rather than to me. The clan chieftain's son should have seemed a better match - __**and**__ I was the one Debra loved._

_But everyone in Glenfinnan knew I'd been born at the winter solstice. And when that sinister Kantos showed up, searching for a "foundling" who'd been born at the solstice, I conveniently wasn't there. I was "lost in the forest." I didn't realize it at the time, but that must have convinced some of the villagers I __**was**__ the "foundling" - not a MacLeod by blood, and somehow dangerous, to boot._

_Debra was my first love._ A love that had never been consummated. _We'd dreamed of a life together since we were children! And I'd loved Robert like a brother._

_But I wound up causing both their deaths_...

Ironically, as he knew now, he actually had been "a MacLeod by blood."

_I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod_...

_When I was a child, I knew Father James MacAlpin. To think that he knew the truth about who I was, what I was - and he was guarding the secret, all that time! I understand that he had no choice. But I so wish he could have told me about my real parents... _

_He'd died before Kantos came to Glenfinnan. If he'd still been alive, might __**he**__ have spirited me away? Might I never have met Cassandra?_

He couldn't imagine how _that_ change might have altered his life...or other lives.

Finally, he let his thoughts go back to the circumstances of his birth.

_I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod_...

_A MacLeod, yes, through my mother. But my birth killed her. In a sense, __**I**__ killed her._

_And Methos...what he must have gone through! Thrilled at the birth of his son, but agonizing over the need to give me away. And then, caught by surprise when my mother began hemorrhaging. It must have been an even worse blow because __**he'd delivered **__**me**__...had been safely delivering babies for millennia, probably had as much medical knowledge as anyone alive at the time. And he __**still**__ couldn't save her. __**Still**__ had to give me away, on top of losing the woman he loved._

_Methos...my father..._

He felt tears sting his eyes, closed though they were.

_But right now, Methos is in Rome_, he reminded himself sternly. _Living life to the hilt, savoring every minute of it._

_**That's**__ how I should think of him_.

Sadly, he couldn't think of Margaret MacLeod in _any_ way other than as a woman in her twenties _(twenties!)_, dying after giving birth to _him_.

_If only I'd been able to know her..._

He did know she'd spoken to him, during those brief minutes when they'd both been alive. Given him a "secret name."

He'd actually learned of that custom in the nineteenth century, when he'd lived among the Roma. Hadn't imagined it had any relevance for _him_, of course! But he'd understood that the giving of such a name was intended to protect a child from black magic, and the child was never meant to know it - not consciously. _Sub_consciously, he undoubtedly _did_ know it.

Even now, he found it hard to think about the bizarre episode in which misguided Watchers had all but destroyed him with drugs, and Nick Wolfe had somehow brought him back to himself by guessing the secret name, and calling him by it.

_Nick, of all people! In his thirties at the time, knowing zero about the Roma...I'll never understand how he did it. Have to settle for just being eternally grateful._

When he'd come back to his senses, he'd quickly told Nick, "Please, don't tell me the secret name! I can't remember it. And I want to know what it is, but I think I'm not meant to know. I have a feeling that if that someday changes, I'll remember it on my own."

Nick had replied with a grin, "Glad you feel that way - 'cause the only way you could have gotten it from me was from my Quickening!"

He didn't care about the name any more. Not for its own sake.

_It couldn't possibly matter now. I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!_ (Though he hadn't used even that identity for centuries.)

But he still tried, every so often, to remember those first few minutes of his life. For the sake of _hearing his mother's voice_. He was sure he'd picked up fragments of it at times...but not enough that he could remember its timbre, let alone specific words.

_Time to try again. Maybe that's the real reason fate brought me back to Britain..._

_Ridiculous, yes. If I couldn't "hear" her speaking to me - in Britain or anywhere else - less than five hundred years after it happened, why should I expect to "hear" her now?_

_But I can't shake the feeling that this time is different. That I'm here for a purpose, beyond my Watcher's family business._

He put Watchers, business, _all_ of it firmly out of his mind.

And let himself drift back through his early-life memories.

Beyond trying to reach weapons kept safely _out of_ his reach...

Beyond playing with Robert...

Beyond clinging to Mary MacLeod's skirts...

Beyond waking in some sort of crib...

Back to...another waking. His _first_ waking?

He heard sounds. Many of which, it seemed, were being made by _him_. Indignant at being so rudely expelled from his quiet, cozy nest!

But then...he felt someone's breath in his ear.

And yes, he could hear a voice. Gentle, female. Saying - saying -

"So here you are!"

_This_ voice was harsh, unfriendly, and definitely not his mother's. "This is how you 'work out'? You didn't even exert yourself by climbing the really steep hill!"

Jolted back to the present, MacLeod needed a few seconds to reorient himself. Catch his breath, still the pounding of his heart.

_Of all the rotten timing... I was so close - so close!_

But then he sighed, looked up at the glowering fifteen-year-old, and said mildly, "I did work out, till I was so exhausted that I had to stop and rest. And I know your uncle told you we'd decided none of us should tackle the steeper hill till we go together. We two old guys, and you and your brother."

_He's also told you never to disturb me when I'm meditating. But it's not worth making an issue of it._

Suddenly realizing where the youth had come from, he said, "You borrowed another canoe? Just to come looking for me?"

"No, I walked on the water." A disgusted snort. "Of course I borrowed another canoe. We needed a second canoe anyway, because the four of us are going fishing today. Remember?"

"Ohh - I clean forgot about the fishing plan! Stayed here longer than I'd intended. I'm sorry!" He really had forgotten, and was genuinely sorry. "I'm coming. Just give me a minute to collect my stuff."

Gathering the "stuff," he had the sad thought that even if he hadn't known the voice, he would have recognized the boy immediately.

Why was that a sad thought?

Because this boy, and his three-years-younger brother, looked so much alike that they could have passed for identical twins. When they were together, the height difference made it easy to tell which was which. Seeing only one of them, it should have been well-nigh impossible.

It wasn't...because the older boy wore a perpetual scowl.

_Angry at the world, at me in particular...and I don't blame him. I wish he could see the world through my eyes! But I'm the last person who could help him._

As they made their way down what would one day be called Wearyall Hill, they were of course conversing in the boy's native tongue.

Aramaic.


	2. Chapter 2

MacLeod had been surprised that the boy - who wouldn't have anywhere near his size and strength, even as an adult - had been able to handle one of the locals' dugout canoes on his own. He'd kept the thought to himself, to avoid giving offense. But the youth must have guessed it; now he was paddling furiously, determined to race him to their destination.

But MacLeod let him take the lead (hanging back so obviously that he was rewarded with an over-the-shoulder sneer). They weren't planning to spend much time in this area, and he wanted to relish every moment - appreciate every facet of its unique beauty.

When he'd first been here (_long ago, in the future,_ he thought with a smile), this lake hadn't existed. (Okay, it was part lake and part swamp; but with the sun reflecting off it as it was now, it was magical.) He was sure even the nearby river had been farther away.

And there'd been nothing like Ynnis-Witrin.

As they skimmed across the water, its wooden palisade came into view. A barrier that seemed to rise, incredibly, out of the lake - surrounding nothing visible.

Of course, it _did_ surround something: a village housing hundreds of people. Built on a man-made "island," a triangle four acres in size. When the weight of ovens and other necessities caused the floors of the villagers' huts to sink deeper into the underlying muck, they simply laid new floors over the old ones.

A twin to this village occupied another man-made, palisaded "island" a few miles away. The communities' inhabitants planted crops and penned livestock on nearby higher ground. But the "island" dwellings enabled them to use the lake and swampland as protective moats.

Unfortunately, there were still some warlike tribes in Britain. Those moats were truly important for defense.

But it wasn't the charm of the area, the prospect of fishing, or any thought of war, that had enticed MacLeod and his Watcher to come here. Nor had they come because the region was reputed to be somehow "sacred" - in its own right, before Christian and Arthurian legends were associated with it. MacLeod had remembered that after they'd arrived, but found no hint of such beliefs at this early date.

The travelers had made their intended contacts with the Cornovii tin miners on the western peninsula. And those miners had told them of the remarkable metalwork being done by the people of Ynnis-Witrin. Iron, tin, copper, bronze...the villagers were using all of them, turning out high-quality finished products. Small as it was, the place was a hub of commerce.

Ynnis-Witrin had proved just as amazing as the miners claimed. Its artisans, and those of the neighboring village, manufactured a wide variety of iron implements, tools, and weapons. Small ornaments were made from both tin and copper. When the tin and copper were combined to make bronze, there were still more and better products: exquisitely decorated bowls, mirrors, brooches, bracelets - some of them enameled. Jewelry was even being made using glass and amber beads. Much of this artwork was being exported - to the regions that supplied the raw materials, and even farther.

MacLeod knew his Watcher was trying to arrange for his wife's merchant family to have preferred access to products, assuming they could send agents to buy them on a semi-regular basis. But he'd made a major purchase of his own (and won them the friendship of the community by doing it): an iron sword, with a beautifully decorated hilt and scabbard. That was the weapon he'd just worked out with...the one he hoped to use for the rest of his life.

It was the first sword he'd felt could really "replace" the oft-repaired katana he'd cherished for millions of years. He wouldn't have risked using that, anyway - a Japanese sword, of a type that wouldn't be _designed_ for another fourteen hundred years. But he still regretted its having been left behind in the future.

_I left my most prized possession in the hands of a woman. A woman I'd met only that day! Saying, "Where I'm going, I won't need this. And everyone who's volunteering for this mission knows he may not return."_

_The __**last**__ place I thought I'd wind up was buying another sword, in Britain, in the year we'll someday think of as 5 CE!_

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By the time MacLeod reached the village's landing-stage, the boy had already moored his canoe and headed up the causeway that led to the "island" proper, constructed over less deep water. But he hadn't gotten far before being confronted by an angry uncle.

"Hosea!" The Watcher was almost shouting. "How many times have I told you not to pester Gershom? He has every right to go off by himself!"

"Gershom" was the name MacLeod had been using among the Jews, chosen because of its meaning: "stranger," or possibly "exile." In this era, his height alone ruled out his being a native of any part of the Middle East.

As he was mooring his own canoe, he called out, "It's all right, Yosef!"

But young Hosea was already defending himself. Loudly. "He'd promised to go fishing with us!"

Yosef shot back, "There's plenty of time for that! And besides, I've also told you never to take one of these boats out alone!"

"Why shouldn't I? _You're_ the only one of us who doesn't know how to swim! You probably don't know how to paddle a canoe, either!"

MacLeod - who'd reached them by now - suspected Hosea was right on that last count. Even so, he was appalled by the boy's showing so little respect for his uncle. Yosef was thirty-five, old enough to be Hosea's father. And not merely "old enough" in the sense of biological possibility: many of their people married and became parents in their teens.

_But of course, Yosef __**isn't**__ his father..._

He cut in, and tried again to smooth things over - saying he'd just been wool-gathering, and was actually glad someone had come after him.

But bickering continued the whole time they were walking back to the village, picking up the sweet-natured younger brother, and heading out again on their fishing trip.

_I knew bringing these boys was a mistake..._

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_**Jerusalem, several months earlier...**_

_"You want to...__**what?**__ Bring two young boys?" MacLeod stopped in the middle of his packing, and turned to stare at his early-morning visitor._

_Who was shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other - always a bad sign._

_"I know it's asking a lot, Gershom." Yosef''s open, honest face revealed every emotion; now, it showed only distress. "And I'm changing the plan at the last minute... I do feel I have to do this. But I'll understand if you can't bring yourself to come with us."_

_MacLeod didn't want to back out. Both men knew he really could be of help to Yosef - as a protector, should the need arise, but also as an interpreter._

_Yosef had no idea MacLeod had come from the future. (MacLeod had told him he'd quit keeping track of his age, but he hadn't been alive while Alexander the Great was making his conquests. True, if deliberately misleading.) And in fact, none of the languages they'd hear throughout Europe bore much similarity to those he'd heard in his youth. _

_But he had a natural gift for mastering languages - nothing to do with Immortality, just a talent he happened to possess. In the last hundred years, he'd repeated something he'd done in the eighteenth century: spent much of his time at sea. With the same result: he'd met men from throughout the Mediterranean region whose wanderlust had driven __**them**__ to the sea. Between working with them and stopping over in assorted ports, he'd picked up at least a smattering of dozens of tongues. And when he encountered a new language, he could often recognize cognates with the ones he knew._

_"__**Why**__ do you want to bring the boys?" he asked. __**Maybe I can talk him out of it.**_

_"Like I told you," Yosef said heavily, "they're my nephews. My sister's sons. She came here this week to tell me how worried she is about them - especially Hosea. Asked if I could think of a way to help." He sighed. "She probably hoped Hannah and I would be willing to keep them with us. And we are willing! We're sure by now that we'll never have children of our own. _

_"But this trip we've been planning is important. The family may, down the road, want to keep agents in Britain. If Hosea and Yehudah get a taste of the business now, one or both of them might decide to go back. And...it might be a safer place for them than Judea."_

_When MacLeod didn't reply immediately, he went on to admit, "My sister felt so sure we'd help that she, uh, left the boys with us. You can come out to our place and meet them today, if you want to! Or if you'd rather not run into all Hannah's kin" - he made a face, only partly in jest - "I can bring them here."_

_MacLeod mulled that over. He knew Yosef and Hannah's "place" was in a village called Ramah, easy walking distance from the city. What some later eras would call a "bedroom community," or an "upscale suburb."_

_**Very**__ upscale. Yosef himself hailed from some other part of the Holy Land. A country boy who'd come to Jerusalem for Passover Week, he'd decided to stay on. Later, he'd married above his station, but truly for love. Now he went out of his way to please Hannah's wealthy family, lest they regret having allowed her to marry him. _

_"But why -"_

_"I know, I know." Yosef gave a sad shake of his head. "I haven't explained why their mother is worried."_

_"__**Or**__ why they might be 'safer' somewhere else."_

_Yosef grimaced. "Right. Here's the problem. A few years back, the boys' father got involved in a rebellion against Rome. Up in -" MacLeod didn't catch the place name, and didn't interrupt him to ask. _

_"The upshot was, __**the Romans killed the boys' father. And Hosea saw it. When he was only seven years old!**__"_

_MacLeod - who'd been standing - sat down abruptly. "Saw...something like that...when he was __**seven?**__"_

_"Yes." Tears had welled up in Yosef's eyes. "So he...has a lot of anger. At the Romans, at everyone._

_"And it doesn't help that his mother's remarried, has more children. Yehudah's the only one who's a full sibling to Hosea. He doesn't even remember their father, wasn't affected by that horror at all - but he idolizes his big brother." _

_"So that's why they have to be kept together," MacLeod murmured._

_"Yes."_

_MacLeod couldn't quite understand the intensity of some Jews' resistance to the Romans. He knew the Romans' culture (if it could be called that) was brutal, and they were savage in putting down rebellions. But otherwise, their occupation of the region they called Palestine was relatively benign. They didn't interfere with the locals' religion, didn't conscript them into the military, were rarely seen at all. The taxes they levied weren't exorbitant. And their soldiers were normally stationed on the borders, save for a small detachment in Caesarea; the Prefect and his guard only came into Jerusalem to assure keeping the peace during Passover Week._

_But he could identify with the troubled Hosea, when he recalled his own anguish over the death of Ian MacLeod. A "father" who'd actually disowned him!_

_Still..._

_"Yosef, I'm afraid these boys will learn I'm Immortal."_

_Yosef shook his head. "There's next to no chance of that, Gershom. Think about it - I've been your Watcher for two years, and only seen you have two swordfights. Both times, you won easily - very easily - and let your opponents walk away. Nothing unusual to be seen, no Quickenings. In fact, you've told me you haven't taken a Quickening in so long that you've almost forgotten what it's like."_

_**Ouch. Why did I tell him that?**_

_"And remember how __**I**__ realized what you are? You slipped up, recovered a little too quickly from an ankle sprain that would have been minor for anyone. I never would have noticed it if I hadn't already been a Watcher."_

_At that, MacLeod had to smile. "You're not going to tell me the 'how I became a Watcher' story again, are you? Believe me, I remember it! You were taking a shortcut through the woods between Jerusalem and Ramah...you saw a Quickening...you fled in terror...the dead Immortal's Watcher caught up with you, and as the only way of keeping you silent, he told you everything and recruited you for their organization. I sometimes hear you going on about that in my sleep!" _

_Yosef managed a rueful smile of his own. "Sorry. The thing is, I've never been able to tell anyone else. Not even Hannah."_

_MacLeod sobered quickly. "I know. And there really is a bond between us, with our shared secrets." (He also knew the Watcher organization would - at the very least - oust Yosef if they learned the Immortal he'd befriended understood what he was.)_

_"I'm glad I 'slipped up' that time, with the sprained ankle! It's worth being Watched, to have you for a friend." He took a deep breath. "So...I guess, for my __**friend**__, I can put up with traveling with a couple youngsters."_

_The look of relief that came over Yosef's face was priceless._

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But _of course_, the unexpected had happened. While they were in Gaul, a ramshackle inn where they were staying had collapsed. They'd gotten out unscathed. But MacLeod had run back in to try to rescue others, and more heavy beams had fallen - directly on him, fracturing his skull.

The two boys had seen him...very, very dead.

And seen him come back to life.

So he and Yosef had been forced to tell them about Immortals. Not everything, but enough to explain what they'd seen.

Hosea had become even more bitter, thinking of "Gershom" (who'd refused to reveal his true age) coming back to life again and again, while _his father_ was irreversibly dead. Murdered, in his twenties!

To make it seem slightly less unjust, MacLeod had taken the risk of telling the boy there _was_ a way he could really be killed: by beheading.

That night, he'd wakened to see a brooding Hosea sitting beside his bed. Holding his _sword_.

He hadn't let Hosea know he'd seen him - or mentioned it to Yosef.

But he'd never, in the weeks since then, had a good night's sleep.

x

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x

To his surprise, the fishing excursion actually went well. Hosea's mood improved when his uncle showed himself to be less "citified" than the boy had assumed. The two of them skillfully crewed one canoe, while MacLeod shared the other with young Yehudah - letting the fascinated twelve-year-old think he was accomplishing more than he really was. In the end, they'd caught enough trout and perch in their nets to assure themselves a fine celebratory cookout.

They'd spent the last few nights sleeping on the floors of one gracious host after another. But their time in the region was nearing its end. They still talked about climbing "the really steep hill" - might or might not do it.

They were, however, agreed on one thing. After all those nights in cramped huts, they wanted to take advantage of the near-perfect weather and sleep outdoors. Where they could stretch their legs! And on real, normal _grass_, with no disturbing-for-them sense of water under it.

They'd found an ideal spot, where they could safely have a campfire, and wouldn't risk trampling anyone's crops or being too near livestock. Since none of them had been willing to admit what they'd all probably feared - that they wouldn't catch any fish - they'd obtained bread, condiments, and ale in the village. They'd attempted to pay for them; but the villagers were still so elated over MacLeod's purchase of the sword that they'd insisted on providing the food and drink gratis.

So they settled themselves around the fire, and had a thoroughly enjoyable meal. The ale flowed freely - Hosea imbibing as casually as his elders, Yehudah quickly becoming drowsy - and the conversation, for once, was wide-ranging and cheerful. No one was drunk...just pleasantly relaxed.

As dusk came, and talk seemed to be winding down, Hosea - who'd been silent for some time - said, "Gershom? Can I ask you something?"

"Of course!"

"Well...when you were 'killed,' back in Gaul, you really looked dead. I'd seen dead bodies before, and there didn't seem to be any difference -"

Yosef cut in, saying, "This is too personal, Hosea! And morbid -"

MacLeod shook his head. "No, no! Go ahead, Hosea. You can ask me anything you want."

_He already knows how to kill me permanently. How could anything else be a problem?_

"This has happened to you and other Immortals before? Often?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Are you _really_ as dead then as other dead people? Except for its being temporary?"

MacLeod wasn't sure where this was leading, but he tried to give an honest answer. "In most ways, yes. There's no breathing, no pulse. For the first few minutes, I'd say there's no difference at all.

"But after a bit, things start happening inside the body. The injuries repair themselves. In most cases, healing is complete or near-complete before the Immortal takes a breath - and immediately comes to.

"There's another difference. If the Immortal is in a place where there's no air to breathe - say, if he's been buried by an avalanche - he can stay temporarily 'dead' for a long time, and his body won't decay."

Hosea pondered that. Gazing down at his clasped hands. "But...no breathing, no pulse. That's what most people think of as being dead..."

"Yes, I'd say so."

"Then...here's what I really want to know." The youth looked up, and MacLeod suddenly felt his eyes boring into him. "Do you remember, when you've been 'dead,' having been in Sheol? Or have other Immortals told you they've been there?"

_Oh, no. Now I see where he's going!_

In this era, virtually everyone in the Mediterranean region believed either that there was no "afterlife" of any kind, or that it consisted of all the dead lingering in a shadowy, subterranean realm where - as MacLeod understood it - there was no reward for the virtuous, no punishment for "sinners." Just a dreary half-life that might or might not, depending on an individual's views, be preferable to outright annihilation. Different peoples had different names for that bleak realm: Jews called it Sheol. And they, like other peoples, were probably evenly divided on the question of its existence.

MacLeod couldn't help blurting out what he was thinking. "You want to know whether Sheol exists. Because you want to believe -" He broke off. Took a deep breath, then said softly, "Sorry. Now _I'm_ getting too personal."

Yosef muttered an oath.

But Hosea didn't seem embarrassed, or rattled. "No, you're right - I'm willing to admit it. I want to believe _my father_ still exists, somewhere. But for starters, I need to know whether you've ever been in Sheol."

MacLeod was shaken. When dealing with religious or quasi-religious questions in this era, he typically sought to avoid giving offense by phrasing his answers in ways that were misleading, while not being outright lies.

But...could he, in good conscience, do that here? Give this earnest boy reason to hope he might someday be reunited with his father...in a nonexistent, wholly imaginary milieu that _should_ inspire less "hope" than _dread?_

His own views - once shaped by Catholicism - were now so different even from that...

x

x

x

In the future MacLeod had left, theistic religions had long since died out. The most widely held belief was that the Cosmos itself is a gigantic Being, and all things in it are parts (rather than inferior "creations") of the eternally existing One. Death was thought to be followed by either reincarnation or (re)absorption into a larger Consciousness, which might in turn be part of a still larger one.

Rejection of belief in a loving and/or judgmental "God" hadn't brought about a decline in morality. When humans no longer harbored what they'd come to believe were baseless feelings of guilt, fear, and sectarian intolerance, most of them had developed greater empathy with and respect for all life-forms. Based solely on the new belief that all things are connected...all, however distantly, related. Parts of a larger Whole.

Nevertheless, Ahriman had reportedly made repeat appearances for millions of years after his short-term defeat by Duncan MacLeod. It was thought he'd never actually won; and it seemed he was finally gone. Scholars had concluded that Ahriman/Satan _et al._ was a thought-form, created and maintained in existence by humans' superstitious belief that "Evil" was an actual entity - or at least, a "force" that could be personified. In truth, "evil" was just an adjective, coined by humans to describe thoughts or deeds human culture perceived as morally reprehensible. That humans _did_ see some things as morally reprehensible was a characteristic they could be proud of!

One school of thought held that Ahriman had ceased to exist when society changed enough that a victorious Champion (unidentified) could live through successive millennia without ever being compelled to resort to violence. Another deemed that unnecessary, claiming he'd ceased to exist as soon as an overwhelming majority no longer believed in him.

That hoary line "The Devil's best trick is convincing people he doesn't exist"? Nonsense. Denial of the existence of "the Devil" did not, in any way, imply denial of the ugly truth that every human is capable at least of condoning morally reprehensible acts, perhaps of actually committing them.

x

x

x

In this painful situation, MacLeod had to make a snap decision - and chose to dissemble. As usual.

"I don't remember ever having been in Sheol. And no one else has mentioned it to me. But that doesn't prove anything. People sometimes have _dreams_ they can't remember...

"You've probably grown up sleeping near Yehudah and the younger children in your family. You must have heard them mumbling in their sleep, surely dreaming - and later, when you asked them about it, they wouldn't remember. Maybe 'visits' to Sheol are like that."

_We don't even have dreams when we're "temporarily dead"..._

_What I said wasn't __**quite**__ a lie!_

_Was it?_

He wasn't surprised that Hosea looked dissatisfied.

After a beat, the boy said dismally, "I'm not just wondering whether Sheol exists. Even if it does, it may not have been created by God. And if it wasn't part of God's creation, it would have to be a place for bad people - a good man like my father couldn't be there."

He swallowed hard, then continued, "Or you, ever. I've sort of...resented you, at times. But I know you're basically a good person. You were trying to help others when that roof fell on you."

This idea was new to MacLeod. "Why would you think Sheol 'wasn't part of God's creation'?"

"Back home, our rabbi reads to us from the Scriptures. Genesis, the story of creation? It mentions God's having created the earth, the firmament, all kinds of things...but not Sheol."

He looked so despondent that MacLeod began wracking his brain, trying to think of a helpful response. Yosef's frown told him he was doing the same thing.

But the person who spoke up was Yehudah. He'd appeared to be nodding off until MacLeod mentioned his name; then he'd sat up straighter and begun listening intently. Now he said, "Hosea, I don't think you need to worry about that! The story we heard about creation doesn't make sense. I know _God_ wouldn't get anything wrong, but the translation must have been wrong. So things may have been left out."

MacLeod had to shoot a quick look at Yosef and murmur, "Translation?"

Yosef nodded, and replied just as softly, "Many rabbis have Aramaic translations from the Hebrew." Then he asked Yehudah, "What do you think doesn't make sense?"

"The whole business about _days! _We're told God separated light and darkness, day and night - was doing things on one 'day' or another - before He created the Sun.

"And everyone knows a 'day' begins with sundown. That's what a 'day' _is!"_

MacLeod had to cover his laugh with a cough.

The Jewish "day" _was_, of course, calculated as beginning at sundown. But still...!

If he'd known no more than his companions, he might - as an adult - have questioned the likelihood of "light" having been created before what would later be perceived as the principal source of light. He wouldn't have argued that the Sun was crucial to belief because _the definition of a "day"_ necessarily included that Sun's _setting!_

But he was impressed by Yehudah's eagerness to help and reassure his brother.

Hosea still looked dubious.

Then Yosef surprised the others by saying thoughtfully, "I don't think the creation account in Scripture can be taken literally. The different chapters aren't even consistent! The point being made - the thing that _is_ consistent - is that the creation was the work of God. And if that's the whole point of the story, I think it's pretty clear that God created everything. If He hadn't, we'd be told that He hadn't."

That was, for a devout Jew, a good response to Hosea's concern about Sheol. Assuming Sheol existed (a totally separate question).

But whether or not it had been Yosef's intention, it also changed the subject. Now Hosea questioned what should and shouldn't be "taken literally." And after they'd all drunk some more ale, Yosef acknowledged that he didn't believe the creation had been accomplished in six days.

Thus encouraged, MacLeod opined that the term "day" could be used to refer to a longer period of time. "Like saying, 'in King David's day' -"

After he'd said it, he realized he wasn't sure whether that idiom existed in either Aramaic or Hebrew. But whether or not it did, Yosef was nodding in agreement.

Yosef went on to speculate that the long-ago Yosef for whom he'd been named might not really have been one of twelve sons of a man named Yaakov. Perhaps scribes had struggled to account for there being twelve tribes? If there ever had been twelve tribes...

Both boys looked mildly scandalized by that degree of speculation. In whatever part of the Holy Land they came from, their rabbi was evidently a stickler for literal interpretation.

MacLeod, however, felt free to put into words a thought he'd had for some time.

"If you're willing to look at it that way, consider this... I know many of your people really did migrate to Egypt, long ago, to escape famine. And centuries later, many of them migrated back to the Holy Land.

"But however that played out, I think the story of _Yosef_ may be symbolic. The _name_ 'Yosef' means 'he will increase'...

"We're told this person is _cast into a pit_. Supposedly, by his brothers.

"I see this as a symbolic _burial_. But...don't forget the meaning of his name!

"After his brothers have supposedly sold him into slavery, he winds up in Egypt. Here, I think 'Egypt' is being used as a symbol for the underworld.

"What's actually been 'buried'? It might be something as simple as a seed, committed to the earth. Or a different type of 'seed,' committed to a woman's womb.

"But, getting back to Yosef...he supposedly marries the daughter of an Egyptian priest, who serves an earth-goddess.

"Our 'seed' is taking root in fertile soil.

"And Yosef and his wife are said to have two sons. Their first son is named Manasseh, which means 'causing to forget'; the second is named Ephraim, which means 'fruitful.'

"It's as if the 'seed' - or whatever it may really be - is 'buried' on one day. 'Day' being used here to mean a period of time, like in the creation story. That day is followed by a day on which it's all but forgotten - nothing seems to have come of it. _But on the third day, unexpectedly, the fruit appears._

"In the story in your Scripture, the Israelites are eventually led back into the Holy Land by Yehoshua - who's said to be a descendant of _Ephraim_. And they bring the bones of Yosef with them! So in a sense, even he has 'returned.'

"The point of the story being, I think, that _nothing of value is ever lost_. Even a worthwhile _idea._ It may have seemed to come to nothing...but it's taken root in one or more minds, somewhere, and it _will_ bear fruit."

After he'd said all that, he felt embarrassed. "Maybe I shouldn't be imposing my take on a story from _your_ Scripture. Sorry! This ale sort of loosened my tongue."

Yosef said, "No problem! It was all new to me, and really interesting. I'm going to give it a lot of thought."

The literal-minded boys had frowned at times. They still looked somewhat puzzled - but didn't voice any objections.

They'd finished their food and drink; and "dusk" had long since turned into night. Ten minutes later, everyone but MacLeod was sacked out, asleep and snoring.

He was sitting alone...gazing up at the stars on this remarkably clear night.

Recalling Yehudah's naive concept of the Sun.

_Everyone in this time thinks it really descends from the sky at sundown, while Earth is stationary._

_If I dared, I could tell my friends so much! So many amazing truths..._

_But they'd take me for a madman._

_They'd never believe many of these stars are the suns of other worlds._

He'd long since given up trying to identify the suns of planets he'd known firsthand. Planets he'd helped to terraform.

But they were up there, somewhere.

Somewhere, some_when_.

x

x

x

Duncan MacLeod would never forget the last word he'd uttered in the future.

That word was _No._

A flat refusal to get in the time machine.

The person nearest him had agreed that he shouldn't get in it. Said there was, in fact, a reason why he _mustn't_ get in it.

_So he could catch me off guard and slip behind me...to conk me over the head._

_Normally, I wouldn't have fallen for that trick. But I wasn't thinking clearly. All of us had just experienced the greatest shock of our lives!_

_And then, I was unconscious during the actual time travel. That's probably why I wasn't traumatized, arrived in the past with my memories intact._

He knew he'd traveled through time in the machine. But he hadn't arrived at a planned destination in it, hadn't stepped out of it as if it were some kind of spaceship. He'd materialized in one time and place, the machine in another.

_That was a malfunction. And I know __**why**__ the time machine malfunctioned._

When he'd realized what had happened, he'd wept for hours. Grieved for years.

But he'd understood that all he could do now was go on with his life. And try to make it a good, meaningful life...

A life that might, in some small measure, justify the terrible price that had been paid for it.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Twenty-five years later.**_

MacLeod couldn't help feeling guilty, as he loitered - no other term would do - near one of the structures in Jerusalem's huge Temple complex.

He'd thought of Yosef as his best friend, known the sentiment was mutual. But he'd still taken his leave of him, only a month after their return from Britain.

MacLeod had, as he'd pointed out, lived in the area for a few years before he and Yosef met. And his height, coupled with his obvious European ancestry, made his appearance somewhat memorable.

But they both knew he could have stayed a little longer without acquaintances noticing he didn't age.

The truth was that the jaunt to Britain had reawakened his love of travel. There were so many regions, as they were in this era, that he had yet to explore!

And there'd also been another consideration - much as he hated to admit it, even to himself.

Despite being over five million years old, despite remembering Tessa as the great love of his life, he still had the libido of a healthy thirty-year-old. Among these pious Jews, just about the only women willing to have sex out of wedlock were prostitutes. Even if he'd been willing to marry, finding a partner would have been difficult. In some societies, constant warfare claimed many men's lives. That wasn't the case here; fewer men than women died young - the women dying in childbirth. With men outnumbering women, not all who hoped to marry could.

He'd known that in other parts of the Greco-Roman world, there were more sophisticated women who enjoyed brief, "no-strings" relationships. (In which he, unlike other Immortals, took great care to prevent pregnancies.)

But he _had_ deserted Yosef at a bad time. His friend had already been disconsolate over the two boys' decision to go back to...wherever it was they'd come from. Whether their mother wanted them there, or not!

The "joint" decision had, of course, really been Hosea's. Yosef had told MacLeod the youth disliked things he'd seen in Jerusalem - in particular, the grandiose trappings of the Temple and the opulent lifestyle of its priests.

MacLeod, like Yosef, had been saddened by Hosea's choice. Both boys had sharp minds, and their not apprenticing themselves to Yosef's in-laws had probably doomed them to lifelong illiteracy. _Yosef_ had been illiterate until those in-laws provided him with tutoring, so he could participate in the family business. And if he hadn't learned to write, he would have been of no use to the Watchers!

x

x

x

_But __**I**__ certainly didn't give him much to write about_, MacLeod reflected. _Three years in the possible three-hundred-year life of an Immortal not using his real name. Two swordfights, easily won; no Quickenings. The only unusual thing Yosef learned about me - unusual, he'd probably think, for an Immortal - was that I'll only take a head as a last resort, to avoid losing my own._

Given his supposedly being no more than three hundred years old, he'd let Yosef assume he'd take a head in that situation solely to avoid being killed. And he did want to go on living. But his main concern was for his Quickening. Even when he really was only a few hundred years old, he'd _taken_ so many Quickenings - of very old, very powerful Immortals - that _his_ Quickening's passing to the wrong person might endanger the world.

There might not be much risk of that in this era. But the risk would increase, he knew, as the world's population grew - with it, the number of Immortals - and they'd be able to travel more quickly and easily. Even the best of Immortal swordsmen could be defeated by enemies willing to break the rules.

_I've had a very long life. Even if my skills never fail me, my __**luck**__ may someday run out_.

He wasn't aware of any horror, _in the history he knew_, that could have been caused by "the wrong person's" receiving his Quickening. And he thought it most likely there'd never been a "past" that _didn't_ include a time-traveling Duncan MacLeod.

_But I'm not_ _**sure**_ _of that..._

He tried not to dwell on the eerie possibility that he might still be alive when his younger self was born. He saw no cosmological reason why they couldn't coexist - living in different parts of the world, never crossing paths. But how could he endure the years of knowing his young mother-to-be was alive...destined to die giving birth to him? How could he get through the day he'd know it was actually happening? Know the anguish Methos was experiencing?

_I miss him, every day of my life! And I know roughly where his "young" self is, at times - because in the future, he mentioned where he'd been. _

_But I can never risk going near him, for fear I __**might**__ screw things up and somehow change history. If only by letting him see I care more about his safety and well-being than a new acquaintance should._

At times he even thought that if he was alive in the year 990 CE, he'd volunteer to go into the Watchers' Sanctuary. He'd never learned the names of all the Sanctuary Immortals, or whether all of them had been seized against their will. He had their Quickenings; but they were buried so deep within him, along with those of so many other Immortals he hadn't known in life, that he couldn't identify them.

The only acquaintance of his who'd seen all their faces was Matthew Hale. One person could surely have failed to see - or acknowledge he was seeing - a "resemblance" that would have seemed impossible.

_Wouldn't that be the ultimate irony - if I, who so resisted it, had been there, by choice, for a thousand years?_

_It would lead to my Quickening ending up, after two beheadings, within __**me**__. Is that even possible?_

_If such a thing is destined to happen, my Quickening is within me __**now**__. Has been, for millions of years._

It boggled the mind.

_**If**__ I'm alive in 990, I'll know that whichever choice I make will be the right one. My younger self won't be harmed. And nothing will prevent my having the life that ultimately brought me here...sane and whole, grateful for all the years I've been given_.

x

x

x

"Gershom" had eluded his replacement Watcher within a week of leaving Jerusalem. They'd never identified him as an Immortal again, in all these years. Not surprising, considering how few swordfights he'd had.

In this era, most Immortals he'd met were friendly. (He'd been delighted when he first realized that.) As for their beliefs about the future, some speculated about there ultimately being only one survivor; but there was no thought of its being inevitable, no concept of a "Gathering" or a "Prize."

To his regret, he hadn't dared warn other male Immortals of the possibility of their making mortal women pregnant, and the women dying. Since he wasn't sure he couldn't change history, he couldn't risk preventing the birth of any Immortal - even those who'd turned out to be villains. Too much else might be changed as a result.

He had, however, taken great satisfaction in telling new Immortal friends something else. That he'd "heard from others" that there might be catastrophic consequences if Quickenings were taken on holy ground - that it might be dangerous even to kill mortals there.

No lying: he had indeed heard that from others. He just didn't mention that he knew it wasn't true.

He'd never know whether he'd given the false belief its start, or it had already been circulating elsewhere. But it _was_ new to everyone who'd heard it from him. And it would save many valuable lives (including, on several occasions, his own).

x

x

x

MacLeod meant to pretend he'd come back to Jerusalem solely to see his old friend. But he was really hoping to "catch" an event that would turn out to be of historical importance: the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth.

_I'll have to start thinking of the man by his proper, Aramaic name_, he reminded himself. _Yeshua._

Trouble was, scholars had long ago concluded that Yeshua's execution hadn't _seemed_ important, to more than a handful of people, at the time. In later centuries, believers in the religion based partly on his teachings had imagined he'd drawn huge crowds during his lifetime, and throngs had filled Jerusalem's streets as he was led to the execution site. But it was much more likely that only a few dozen people in the city had ever heard of him, and even most of _them_ were unmoved by his death.

Pontius Pilate, who'd pronounced the death sentence, had probably forgotten him an hour later - and never thought of him again.

He'd doubtless had a following, of some sort, in the northern region of Galilee. But he would have been forgotten in a matter of months if a few fanatical disciples hadn't claimed he'd risen from the dead.

They never produced a living Yeshua. But they seemingly convinced others - intentionally or unintentionally - that he'd been seen alive by many more people than actually had claimed "visions" of him. Then, they said, he'd "ascended into Heaven" - but only after proving, by his resurrection, the truth of his teachings.

Within the next century, the sect that would come to be known as "Christian" had won many converts - mostly Gentile - and come to regard Yeshua himself as divine, equal with the Creator.

The religion that claimed him as its founder had endured, in one form or another, for midway between two and three thousand years. Not long, it might seem, considering that in the era MacLeod had left, five _million_ years had elapsed since his death. But during those few thousand years, Christianity had exerted an enormous influence on Western civilization...for good _and_ ill. As a result, it still loomed large in history.

It had also, once, exerted an enormous influence on MacLeod. In his youth, he'd innocently assumed that the resurrection of Jesus was so well-attested that it was beyond doubt. After he realized he himself was an Immortal, he'd learned that some people who knew about Immortals believed Jesus had merely been one of them. But he'd never accepted that notion. He'd been taught that Jesus had claimed to be divine, and was so virtuous that he couldn't conceivably have lied.

But during the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, serious scholarship had shown that there was no historically reliable evidence that Jesus had either risen from the dead or claimed to be divine. The general public had only gradually learned and come to accept that; for some Christians, it had made no difference.

MacLeod now thought of Yeshua merely as a good man - some of whose actual beliefs had been proven wrong (and, as a consequence, glossed over and barely acknowledged by later Christian theologians). But his crucifixion had so impacted history that MacLeod couldn't imagine a time-traveler _not_ wanting to observe it - or at least, learn the "real story." Much of what historians had concluded was based on probabilities, without firm evidence.

It was a near-certainty that Yeshua had been crucified during a Passover Week, probably on the feast day itself. But there was no consensus as to the year. Most estimates put it between 30 and 33 CE. So MacLeod had come to Jerusalem at the beginning of Passover Week in 30 CE. But he knew it could have been an earlier year - in which case, he'd already missed it.

He'd made discreet inquiries, and been happy to learn Yosef and his wife Hannah were still alive and well. He'd always intended, if that was the case, to start by getting in touch with Yosef. But he'd learned something else, an unexpected stroke of luck: his old friend was now a member of the Sanhedrin. The highest court and council in Jerusalem, though largely controlled by the Temple priests. _Another benefit - assuming he sees it that way - of marrying into a wealthy family!_

According to the Christian writings known as Gospels, Yeshua had some sort of trial before the Sanhedrin, then was passed on to the Roman Prefect Pontius Pilate.

_So if it's already happened, Yosef will know about it, however minor it may have seemed. I won't dare ask him any leading questions, in case it __**hasn't**__ happened. But if I hang around for a while, I should be able to steer a conversation in the right direction. If I'm once sure it hasn't happened yet, I can slip into the city for as many Passover Weeks as necessary._

_Of course, __**this**__ week's been thought the most likely..._

He snapped to attention as men began strolling out of the nearby building. Members of the Sanhedrin, leaving their meeting.

Despite the passage of twenty-five years, he recognized Yosef at once. _But in other eras, sixty-year-olds have looked so much younger! _

If there'd been any doubt, the expression on Yosef's face would have dispelled it. His eyes widened in disbelief; an instant later he was beaming, radiating an almost childlike delight. He'd been walking with two other men, but he quickly excused himself and hurried over to MacLeod.

"Gershom!" Excited as he was, he remembered to keep his voice low. "I'd almost given up hope of ever seeing you again!"

"I'm sorry. I meant to get back sooner." And MacLeod really was sorry. _I should have spent more time with a friend like him. Their lives are so short! _

"Are you planning to live here for a while, like you did before?" Suddenly, Yosef's face fell. "Oh. I just realized that would pose problems. I can't let Hannah see you now. And I can't risk letting other Watchers see me _with_ you.

"I probably should have told them, all those years ago, that you'd confided in me and told me about Immortals. I could have let them think you knew nothing about _us_, and I hadn't enlightened you! But I chose not to tell them anything, except that you're an Immortal and you'd accepted me as a friend.

"If there was no more to it than that, you wouldn't approach me now and let me see you haven't aged. If the Watchers learn you are willing to do that, they'll realize I haven't been completely honest with them. And they'll demand I tell them whether you know I'm a Watcher..."

"Yes, that probably would cause trouble." _It's been worked out in some eras, but not easily_. "But let's sit down together and have a long talk about what we've both been doing! The inn where I'm staying isn't great, but I promise it won't collapse on us."

Yosef grinned. "If it does, I'm sure you'll rescue me!"

x

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x

A half hour later they were settled in MacLeod's plain but comfortable lodgings, sharing a decent red wine.

After a brief chat about how they'd both fared over the years, MacLeod asked, "Say, what's become of Hosea and Yehudah? I've thought of them often."

To his surprise, a bemused expression came over Yosef's face. "_That's_ quite a story! You'll be able to see them this week - they plan to come to Jerusalem for Passover. And they know what you are, so they won't be surprised at your not having aged. Of course, even they look older than you do now -"

_And I suppose Hosea will resent __**that**_, MacLeod thought. Then he regretted his uncharitable guess - the boy had shown signs of "mellowing" before they went their separate ways. Aloud, he said, "Do they still look like twins?"

"Yes - though it's less noticeable now, with different length beards. And they're still close, neither of them married.

"But they've changed in other ways. Hosea, especially...

"To explain, I'd better back up and say a little about someone else. Have you heard of a preacher named Yochanan? He was urging people to repent of their sins, dunking them in the River Jordan to 'cleanse their souls.' A ritual called 'baptism.' "

MacLeod nodded. "Yes." _John the Baptist_. "He's dead now, isn't he?"

"Yes. He was fool enough to make an enemy of Herod Antipas, the Romans' puppet ruler up in Galilee. Created an uproar over Herod's incestuous marriage to his niece. So Herod had him arrested, and ultimately beheaded.

"Hosea had become a disciple of Yochanan. And Yehudah still tends to go along with him in everything, so he'd become one too.

"After Yochanan was arrested and couldn't continue his preaching, Hosea began doing it himself. Not baptizing, but he's been going from village to village...an itinerant preacher. Yochanan probably started out that way - a would-be religious teacher would have to have some name recognition before he could get people to follow him to the nearest stream!

"And about names...are you aware that according to our Scripture, the original name of the famous 'Yehoshua' was Hosea? Moses supposedly told him to change it. So when our Hosea decided he had this...mission, he changed _his_ name to the Aramaic form of 'Yehoshua.' _Yeshua_."

_**"What?"**_ MacLeod spilled his wine. And never noticed.

"I know - sounds pretty extreme, doesn't it?" Yosef was shaking his head. "Just changes the meaning of the name from 'salvation' to 'Yahweh _is_ salvation.' But he's sort of equating himself with that earlier Yehoshua...

"He _has_ become a really good man, Gershom. You'll be surprised. He's saying some things I'm sure you'd agree with. That we should show compassion for others - help those in need, not presume to judge other people's morals, not treat other groups as inferior. He says those things are more important than fussing over 'rules' like what can or can't be done on the Sabbath.

"But...I have a problem with his idea of _why_ we should be leading good lives.

"I don't know whether you've been aware of this. During the last hundred, maybe two hundred years, some Jewish thinkers have spread the notion that this whole _age_ is _rotten_. Beyond any hope of its 'improving.' It's actually ruled by the Forces of Darkness!

"Why God's supposedly permitting that is unclear. But they say it's coming to an end. They expect God to intervene, _soon_, and overthrow the evildoers. A _real_ intervention by God Himself.

"And then, they believe, God will establish His Kingdom on Earth. The nature of society will be turned upside down - all those who are downtrodden now will be exalted, and those who are in power now will either be punished, somehow, or destroyed.

"After that, the good people living in God's Kingdom won't experience suffering of any kind. There will be no wars, no crime, no injustice, no illness, no _death._ Presumably no more births, either, since the usual descriptions of the Kingdom say it won't include marriage...or sex. Just people living - in real, physical bodies - in eternal bliss.

"That's the sort of future Yochanan was predicting. Telling people they had to begin living the right way, _now_, because the Kingdom was coming soon.

"But there's one more wrinkle -"

"I think I know." The stunned MacLeod barely recognized his own voice. "I have heard this theory before. The Kingdom is supposed to include all the virtuous dead, brought back to life.

"_That's_ why you think it has such appeal for Hosea, isn't it? I mean, Yeshua. He expects to get his _father_ back!"

"Right." Yosef sighed. "I've never actually heard him preach, but I've been told he puts more emphasis on the revival of the dead than Yochanan did. And he seems to think our 'living as we hope to live in the Kingdom' will induce God to bring it about more quickly!

"I don't buy into this at all. I _don't_ think we're living in an 'evil age.' There are problems, sure, but I also see a lot of good in the world.

"Of course, I didn't see my father murdered when I was seven..."

MacLeod was still dazed.

He wasn't surprised to learn that the main thrust of Yeshua's teachings involved the imminent establishment of God's Kingdom on Earth. Scholars had deduced that in the twentieth century.

But he _hadn't_ been prepared for the additional "wrinkle" of Yeshua's having yearned for the revival of a dead father.

And he was shocked by the realization that "Yeshua" was someone he _knew_. Yosef's nephew!

_Yosef's nephew, destined to be crucified this week?_

Now pieces began coming together in his mind.

_The legends..._

_A man named Joseph. The uncle of Jesus. _

_Who took "the child Jesus" to the vicinity of what would one day be called Glastonbury, after first trading with tin miners in Cornwall..._

Of course, most of the people who circulated those tales had imagined Joseph taking a cherubic five-year-old to a place that was already considered holy, and the five-year-old being moved to perform a few miracles while he was there.

_But...there is a version of the legend in which Joseph was hoping to groom Jesus to become his merchant family's agent in Britain!_

_That really happened? __**I was there**__, and never realized what I was seeing...who they were?_

Understandable, perhaps. Those legends had supposedly been "debunked."

In fact, scholars had cast doubt on the very existence of "Joseph of Arimathea," despite his being mentioned in the Gospels. MacLeod himself, though, had never doubted it. Darius had told him Ludovic, the ancient Immortal holy man whose head he'd taken at the gates of Paris, had received the Cup of the Last Supper directly from Joseph's hands.

Thinking back now, he was sure one Gospel actually referred to Joseph's being a member of the Sanhedrin.

"Gershom? Are you all right?" A concerned Yosef was clasping his hands.

"Yes, yes. Sorry!" He pulled himself together, thought quickly, and said, "That hit me hard because I was reminded of the death of the man I'd thought was _my_ father, long ago. But it wasn't as bad as what Hosea - Yeshua - went through. I was young, but I was an adult, and I didn't actually see it."

Accepting that, Yosef continued, "From what I've been hearing, Yeshua doesn't have a large following in Galilee. But his dozen or so disciples have gotten so fanatically devoted to him that they insist he's the Messiah. And they're trying to convince _him_ of it! You've spent enough time around our people to understand the idea of the Messiah, right?"

MacLeod nodded. "Yes. God's 'anointed one.' " In Greek, _Christos_. "A _deliverer_ who'll somehow save the Jewish people from their oppressors. Not everyone who believes in a coming Messiah also believes in the Kingdom of God on Earth, do they?"

"No, the two ideas are separate. A person may believe in one or the other, both, or neither.

"And there's no agreement on what the Messiah might do, or even _be_. Some think he'll be a supernatural Being like an archangel, who could never be mistaken for a human. Those who think he'll be human don't agree on whether he'll be a great military leader, or a great spiritual leader - a Temple high priest - to whom adversaries will yield out of sheer awe. Yeshua will never be either of those things, doesn't even want to be.

"I wish his followers weren't putting this 'Messiah' idea in his head. But he's said to be a compelling preacher. And these men are as passionate as he is about the 'Kingdom.' They want it to come _quickly!_

"Of course, just about everyone remembers someone who's died, that he'd give anything to see again..."

_I see Joe Dawson in __**you**__, _MacLeod thought.

_I hope you have his strength._

The conversation eventually moved on to other things - though MacLeod couldn't forget for a moment that _his friend's nephew_ was destined to be crucified, probably that week.

_There was no way I could have guessed, all those years ago. "Yeshua" is a common name here - more common than "Yosef"! No one had ever suggested it wasn't the __**original**__ name of the man we later called Jesus._

_And Hosea - Yeshua - would be forty now. Older than Jesus was thought to be._

_But the estimates of his birth year, and his age at death, were never really more than guesses._

Before Yosef left, he got answers to two other questions.

"Yosef - this may sound silly, but here goes. I once mentioned your village, Ramah, to someone, and he told me it had previously been called by another name. I can't for the life of me remember what it was. Do you know?"

Yosef grinned. "Yes. Really, its formal name still _is_...Ramathaim-Zophim. How would you like to say _that_ a dozen times a day?"

_"Ramathaim"...if I'd heard that, I __**might**__ have guessed "Arimathea"! _

He remembered that one reason scholars had doubted "Joseph's" existence was that they'd found no other mention, anywhere, of a place called Arimathea.

He, on the other hand, had thought it was a real place name, because no one would bother to _make up_ a name with so many syllables.

"More seriously...years ago, you told me the name of the place where the boys' father died. Where was that, again?"

"Tzippori."

"Oh yes, of course."

He wanted to kick himself. He hadn't quite caught the name - a Hebrew name - because he'd always thought of the city by its Arabic name, Sepphoris. But the words were cognates, and he prided himself on recognizing cognates!

If he'd heard the name "Sepphoris," he would immediately have thought of its being _near Nazareth_.

x

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Yosef departed in the best of spirits, promising to get in touch with "Gershom" as soon as his nephews arrived in town. He disagreed with some of Yeshua's beliefs - but families often had differences. That wouldn't prevent their all having a happy reunion!

MacLeod watched him go, then collapsed on his bed.

His mind was still in turmoil.

_The Glastonbury legends make no mention of Yehudah..._

_No. But come to think of it, other legends do account for him._

In the Gospels, the name of one of Jesus's twelve Apostles was given as Thomas. But in Aramaic, "Thomas" meant literally "twin." There'd been an oral tradition that in the Apostle's case, it was a nickname - another name for the Apostle Jude (not to be confused with _Judas_ Iscariot). It meant that Jude was someone's twin. In fact, he was the twin of Jesus!

Scholars hadn't taken that seriously. They'd thought "Thomas" might well have been used as a proper name; but even if it had meant one of the Apostles was someone's twin, there was no reason to think he was _Jesus's_ twin.

They'd also argued that the idea derived from certain pagan myths, in which a woman had mated with a god and a mortal on the same night and then given birth to twin sons, identical save for one's being divine and the other mortal.

_But the truth is that Jesus really does have a brother - "the Apostle Jude" - who looks enough like him that he __**could**__ be a twin._

_And Sepphoris...I remember its being thought strange that none of the Gospels mentioned the city so near where Jesus lived. Never referred to his going there, when it would have been a short walk..._

_It had been virtually rebuilt by Herod Antipas, and it was mostly his partisans who were living there..._

_Did early Christians deliberately fudge Yeshua's age, to __**cover up**__ his having known about - and obsessed about - his father's dying in that rebellion? His having bad feelings about that city?_

_If people have been less than honest here, maybe I'm one of them. On some level, I didn't __**let myself**__ hear where young Hosea's father had died. I didn't want to think about it. I've known so many worse eras that I want to see only the good in this one. It's not "rotten" - but it's not an unspoiled Paradise, either._

Now he tried to remember more about Sepphoris.

It wasn't easy.

News spread slowly in this era, if at all. He didn't recall having heard anything about that rebellion while it was taking place...or since.

_So to learn about something that happened thirty-three years ago, I have to summon up memories of things I read or heard __**millions**__ of years ago._

He knew his kind had a greater memory capacity than mortals - a difference he hadn't realized when he was a few hundred years old, or even a few thousand. He could forget something he'd heard yesterday, just like a mortal; but the _depth_ of memory from which information might be retrieved was near-infinite. Nevertheless, this situation was bizarre.

_**Am**__ I really sane?_

x

x

x

But he did somehow access the memories.

And wished he hadn't.

x

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x

That night, something happened to Duncan MacLeod that hadn't happened for millions of years.

He had a nightmare...and woke up screaming.


	4. Chapter 4

Come morning, he was beset by waking thoughts that were even more troubling than what he'd remembered reading about Sepphoris.

Thoughts he'd been too stunned to formulate the day before.

_I know Yeshua isn't a divine Being who wants to "sacrifice himself for the sins of the world." He's as human as I am. He'll be coming to Jerusalem this week with every expectation of leaving after Passover, alive and well._

_He's the nephew of the only real friend I have in this era. Yosef cares for him, deeply. And I care for him, too - I can sympathize with what he went through as a child._

_Is it possible I __**can**__ change history? _

_Can I save Yeshua's life, if I convince him and his disciples, as soon as they get here, that he's in mortal danger and they need to leave - immediately?_

_If I __**can**__ do that, __**should **__**I **__do it? _

_**Prevent the crucifixion of Jesus?**_

The very idea was...staggering.

When he'd headed for Jerusalem, he hadn't dreamed of attempting such a thing. The crucifixion was, in his mind, "history" - over and done with. He'd expected to observe it as dispassionately as if it were a play.

But now it was affecting real people, people he _knew_...

_If I knew nothing about the long-term future, but had learned, somehow, that Yeshua's life was in danger, __**of course**__ I'd try to save him. Would it actually be unfair to him - and to Yosef - to treat this situation differently, because I "happen to" have knowledge no one in this era __**should**__ have?_

_But, like it or not, I __**have**__ seen the future..._

_I've never been able to decide whether Christianity caused more harm than good. But it certainly wasn't anything Yeshua had envisioned. He didn't mean to "found a new religion" - didn't expect this world, as we know it, to be around for more than another fifty years. At most._

Of course, MacLeod had thought it most probable that he _couldn't_ change history. That he, and whatever he might do, had been part of it all along.

_"Free will"...with a preordained outcome?_

Even if he could change something, destiny - or mere chance - might change something else to offset it.

_If Yeshua was "originally" crucified during this Passover Week, and I prevent it, it might happen next year, when for some reason I won't be around._

_Or perhaps it was always meant to happen next year, or the year after that._

_My tampering might even get more people killed. Innocents like Yosef..._

_But can I stand by and do nothing? __**Betray**__ Yosef? _

_I've been a poor excuse for a "friend." Am I being given a chance to redeem myself now?_

x

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Closeted in his room, agonizing over the choice he had to make, he imagined dozens of possible scenarios.

Brooded. Wept. Paced the floor. Kicked the furniture. Literally tore his hair out.

He lost all track of time. Day gave way to night, and back again. More than once? He wasn't sure.

He'd paid for a week's lodging in advance, so the innkeeper had no cause for complaint. But that worthy man was concerned about him. Every so often he tiptoed in, left a tray of food, and departed as silently as he'd come.

Sometimes, MacLeod actually ate it.

It was when he caught himself arranging olives in the shape of a death's-head that he realized _This has to stop._

And faced the truth.

The truth he'd known, deep down, all along.

_I can't morally justify trying to change a "history" I know exists. __**Especially**__ to change the fate of a man as important to that history as Jesus._

_There'd be a ripple effect extending through millions of years. And it doesn't matter whether the change would make those millions of years better or worse._

_Given the significance of Christianity, any change would alter the comings and goings of countless people._

_Comings and goings, meetings and matings._

_I'd be preventing the __**births**__ of countless people...real people, who've lived in real eras that I've experienced. Erasing them and their descendants from existence._

_That's a crime I can't commit._

Yes, he'd come to believe in reincarnation. He didn't believe every person possessed a "soul" - meant to survive eternally - that was created from nothing at the person's conception or birth, and had no connection with anything else. A soul that could be "erased from existence."

But what he did believe was that in every person, a stream of ever-evolving Matter was paired with a separate stream of ever-evolving Mind. For "one sweet moment" - be it an infant's life-span or one as long as his, it was a mere moment in even a _planet's_ history - those two streams were joined. Then they diverged again. How could the uniqueness of the product of their union not be sacrosanct?

He'd made his decision. But he shed more tears...and then felt as if he'd taken a real, physical beating.

x

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The next time the innkeeper ventured in (somewhat timidly), MacLeod asked him, "Uh, what day is this?"

"_Yom Hamishi_."

MacLeod was shocked. It was, at least, still early in the morning. But "Day Five" - the fifth day of the week? He'd been "out of it" for three entire days!

During which time he hadn't even changed his clothes, let alone bathed.

After the innkeeper left, he made haste to remedy that situation. Now that he was thinking more clearly, he was puzzled. Three days...why hadn't Yosef made a return visit? Had Yeshua and his disciples not shown up yet?

_Maybe they've changed their minds about coming. So I've been a wreck for days, and nothing's going to happen this year after all._

Then he had another thought. A grim one.

_If it is destined to happen now...this is the day Christians will commemorate as "Holy Thursday"!_

And at that moment, there was a knock on his door. "Gershom? It's me, Yosef..."

x

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x

Even though MacLeod had at least cleaned himself up, he thought that when he opened the door, Yosef's first words would be, "You look terrible!"

But they weren't.

Understandably.

Because Yosef looked even worse.

"Gershom, I need your help! I'm so sorry...this is a crisis...I hoped I could handle it myself, but I can't...it may be too late, but if there's anyone who _can_ help, it's you..."

"Come in, come in! Quickly!"

As MacLeod closed the door and steered his distraught friend to a chair, his mind was racing.

_Oh, no. Is he going to ask me to be Yeshua's bodyguard?_

_If that's it, will I have to __**deliberately fail**__ as a bodyguard? Or will I be able to do my best, and still fail?_

By the time they were both seated, Yosef had composed himself. "I'm sorry, Gershom. I know that if there's any chance of our getting out of this mess, I can't afford to panic." He took a deep breath, then said, "I _really_ didn't want to have to tell you this! But...the problem goes back to when we were in Britain, all those years ago."

That was the _last_ thing MacLeod had expected to hear. "When we were in Britain?"

"Yes. Remember that night in Ynnis-Witrin...well, near Ynnis-Witrin, when we were camping out? Talking around the fire, sharing ideas that were a little bit...radical?"

"Y-yes." _What I remember, mostly, is drinking a lot of ale._

"You suggested the story of the long-ago Yosef might have been symbolic..."

"Oh, yes!" That did come back to him, because it was an idea he'd played with at various times. Though he couldn't imagine why Yosef wanted to talk about it now.

"I understood what you meant," Yosef continued. "That you were talking about things like _ideas_ being 'buried' and supposedly forgotten, and 'bearing fruit' much later. But the boys - Yehudah in particular - were very young, very literal-minded. What Yehudah remembered was just..._the unexpected consequence of a 'burial' coming to light on the third day_."

_I guess "day" really isn't used in a non-literal sense in Aramaic or Hebrew_, MacLeod thought ruefully.

Then he let out a gasp. "Wait a minute. Are you saying Yehudah thought I meant the long-ago Yosef really did die and was buried, and rose from the dead on the third day?"

"No, no. I wish he _had_ understood it that way!

"However he understood it at the time, what he came to believe later was that it was a _prophecy_. That God had caused you to make, without your realizing it. It seemed reasonable to him that God might choose to speak through someone as 'different' as an Immortal.

"He thought it was a 'prefiguring' of what would, one day, _really_ happen to someone. Namely, the Messiah!"

_And Yeshua's disciples believe..._

_"Oh, no!"_ MacLeod was appalled. "He thinks his brother Yeshua is going to die, and rise from the dead on the third day?"

_This is crazy! How can it be happening? A disciple expecting Yeshua to rise on__** the third day**__...because of a notion he'd gotten from __**me?**_

But Yosef was shaking his head. "I'm afraid it's worse than that.

"Yehudah doesn't think anyone's going to rise from the dead. He came up with a plan - and he's gotten Yeshua to agree to it.

"Yeshua is deliberately antagonizing the Temple priests, _and_ making sure the Roman authorities will hear he's said things they'll take to be seditious.

"The plan is for the Romans - goaded by the priests - to execute a man they'll think is Yeshua. But it will really be Yeshua's _lookalike brother_. Yehudah intends to _let himself be killed!_ He believes this is all, really, part of _God's_ plan - that the Messiah was given a lookalike brother to make it possible.

"And then, on _the_ _third day_ - when the body's been buried long enough that no one can claim he 'hadn't been quite dead' - Yeshua will make a dramatic _'return'_ from the dead. To win himself - they think - a larger following, and speed the coming of the Kingdom.

"They don't think anyone will dare try to kill him _again_, because he won't have been brought back to life by any other known holy man. He'll seem to have 'risen' using only his own powers, or been brought back directly by God. Even among people who believe in miracles, that's unheard-of."

MacLeod was dumbstruck.

_No, __**no, NO!**_

_Is__** this**__ the original history? The "resurrection" a__** fake**__...pulled off with Yeshua's consent? Worse yet, pulled off by sacrificing a lookalike brother?_

_And...did I use imagery that __**suggested**__ "a return on the third day" because I was unconsciously remembering the __**"**__**myth"**__ of the resurrection of Jesus?_

_**Am I to blame for all of it?**_

_I wish the surly boy Yeshua once was __**had**__ beheaded me while I slept!_


	5. Chapter 5

Yosef was shaking him. "Gershom? _Please!_ I know this is...outrageous. Know you're probably blaming yourself - though you shouldn't. But you have to help me find them, and talk to them! You're the _only_ person who might be able to convince them this is madness."

MacLeod somehow found his voice. "All...all right. I'll try."

He no longer cared about "changing history." _I_ _**can't**_ _let this...atrocity...become the basis of billions of people's beliefs, if there's any way to prevent it! _

He'd never forgive himself for having caused such a catastrophe. But he vowed to summon up all his strength, and try to rectify it.

Or at least, help his friend survive it. Even as it was, he doubted it was going to play out as Yehudah intended.

_In the history I know, there wasn't anything dramatic about Jesus's "return." Scholars saw no reason to believe he'd really been resurrected._

_And while not much is known about most of the Apostles, it was claimed Thomas-who-might-also-have-been-Jude went off to preach in faraway India. A way to explain his not being anywhere around __**here?**_

_I'm afraid both brothers are going to wind up dead._

"You don't even know where they are?" he asked.

"No," Yosef said miserably. "Not right now. A few other disciples are with them - Hannah and I would have put them up at our place, but they've never gotten on well with her relatives.

"So they've been staying with friends in Bethany - that's a shorter walk from the city than Ramah, in any case. But at this time of day, they could be anywhere."

"We can try the Temple," MacLeod suggested. "If they're doing _any_ 'normal' things on this day, they'll be buying a Paschal lamb for slaughter. Unless they're having their Passover dinner with the friends in Bethany?"

He was sure he remembered the Gospels' indicating they'd had it somewhere in Jerusalem. _But accounts that will be written decades from now could be wrong._

"No. They've told me they're planning to have it in the city, in a room supplied by some 'friend of a friend.' I know where it'll be - they've invited Hannah and me. Under the circumstances - the chance of trouble erupting at any time - I'm not bringing Hannah. So there's no reason I can't bring _you_.

"But that will be after sundown. I hope to God we can find them before then..."

x

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x

As they rushed from one place to another, fruitlessly hunting Yeshua and his disciples, the agitated Yosef gave a fuller explanation of the plot.

As MacLeod well knew, pilgrims flocked to Jerusalem during Passover Week...and that was when the Romans had the greatest fear of rebellion.

The only time a person could be arrested, quickly condemned to death for the crime of sedition, and crucified - all of that taking place in Jerusalem - was during Passover Week. That was the only time the Prefect and his guard were there, their presence meant to act as a deterrent.

The bodies of crucified criminals were usually left on the crosses for days - the sight of them also meant as a "deterrent." Yeshua had told Yosef he wanted to avoid that, because the citizenry would be less likely to accept a "resurrection" if they'd seen the body savaged by crows and rodents, perhaps even partially decomposed. (Yosef suspected he hadn't shared that thought with _Yehudah_.)

There was a way it could be avoided. In deference to the locals' religion, the Romans never performed crucifixions in Jerusalem, or left bodies on crosses there, on the Sabbath.

So the plan called for timing the provocations leading to the arrest so Yehudah would be crucified on _the day_ _before_ the Sabbath. It was unfortunate that _'erev shabbat_ - "Sabbath Eve" - would be the actual Feast of Passover; but it couldn't be helped.

Typically, when bodies were taken down, they were buried in makeshift graves not far from the execution site. If there were two or more, they'd be tossed into a common grave.

So in this case, one of Yeshua's disciples would follow the gravediggers and see where Yehudah was buried. After the Sabbath concluded - under cover of darkness - they'd dig up his body. Or if it was a grave containing more than one, they'd remove _some_ body! They hadn't thought out what they'd do with it.

MacLeod wanted to retch.

x

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Much as he'd hoped they'd find Yeshua and his companions before they reached the intended site of their Passover meal, he wasn't surprised when they didn't. But at least they were early; he thought they might have as much as an hour in which to try to reason with Yeshua before everyone sat down to eat.

As it turned out, "they" weren't going to confront Yeshua at all: Yosef was leaving it entirely to him. "Believe me," his friend said wretchedly, "I've had my shot, and then some! You're our only hope."

Under the circumstances, he felt awkward about approaching the man he'd last seen as an unruly fifteen-year-old. And had once, ages ago, _thought of as God._ But he steeled himself, and did it - with a hand outstretched in friendship. "Yeshua!"

"Gershom!" Yeshua clasped his hand, with a warm smile. But the smile didn't reach his eyes; what MacLeod saw there was wariness.

He'd already greeted Yehudah...sensing the same wariness.

There was still a strong resemblance between the brothers (and their beards were now of equal length). No one who knew them would mistake one for the other; in fact, Yeshua looked older than forty, Yehudah younger than thirty-seven. And their voices were very different - Yeshua's less pleasant, but more compelling.

But there was definitely enough of a likeness that if Yehudah wasn't going to say much, he could pass for Yeshua and be crucified in his place.

Both brothers were - as MacLeod had expected - at least six inches shorter than he, their body types wiry rather than muscular. That was true of most men in this time period, even Europeans. The average height of a Roman soldier was only five feet four inches.

_That rules out any possibility of __**my**__ impersonating him._

_But it wouldn't have worked anyway, for another reason..._

Yeshua introduced Gershom ("a Gentile friend of our uncle's") to a clutch of disciples - MacLeod didn't bother to count. They all looked nervous, as befit men who knew something very bad was going to happen, very soon.

_But not here. Someone will lead Temple guards to a place where "Yeshua" can be arrested - at a time when the real Yeshua won't be there, only Yehudah._

He was momentarily puzzled at being introduced to an earnest young disciple whose name was given as "Kerioth."

Yeshua must have seen a question in his eyes, because he went on to say, "You're right, that isn't a proper name. Our friend here is a second 'Yehudah,' so we call him something else - his choice! The name of his home town, near Hebron."

MacLeod said weakly, "Of course." _I remember now. That's one of the possible explanations I heard, long ago, for "Iscariot."_

x

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x

He maneuvered Yeshua into an alcove where they could speak in private. Yeshua went willingly; it was clear he knew an argument was coming, and didn't intend to dodge it.

He looked steadily at MacLeod, and said, "I can see Yosef has told you everything."

"Yes." Keeping his voice low, he said urgently, "Yeshua, how can you believe I delivered some sort of 'prophecy' about the Messiah?

"You just introduced me to your disciples as a Gentile. So you know I'm not a worshipper of the Jewish God.

"And I also know Yosef has told you enough about Immortals that you can't be imagining I'm some sort of...angelic Being. I'm just a man, of what might be called a different race than yours.

"Why would your God deliver a 'prophecy' through _me?_ Just as important - why would He suddenly deliver, through _anyone_, a 'prophecy' about the Messiah's rising from the dead on the third day, when it's not consistent with anything else that's ever been believed about him?

"And...if God did deliver a prophecy through me, isn't it likely He'd inspire me to understand it, and agree with the way you're interpreting it? Why would He let me _dis_agree - as I do?"

Yeshua's eyes were troubled. After a beat, he replied, "I'm not sure about the 'prophecy.'

"But I remember something else you said that night. The way _you_ explained your...parable. You said the _seed of an idea_ could be planted...seem to have been forgotten...but bear fruit long afterward. That's what's happened here, with a valuable idea you planted in Yehudah's mind. Whether or not you like to admit it."

MacLeod was as stunned as if Yeshua had suddenly slapped him.

But after he'd caught his breath, he came back with, "How can you possibly think this is a good idea? To let your own brother be killed - in your place?"

"It's not about me! It's about _someone's_ being recognized as a leader who can inspire more people to believe in the coming Kingdom, to trust that God will bring it, and show Him we're worthy.

"The two of us looking so much alike gives us an opportunity no one else has. I'd gladly be the one to die, and let Yehudah 'rise from the dead.' But he can't preach...isn't even willing to try.

"And I never would have suggested this. _Yehudah_ brought the idea to _me_. He'll confirm that he had a hard time talking me into it."

"He believes you're the Messiah," MacLeod persisted. "Do you believe that?"

"Possibly not in the way he does. But I believe that if _some_ spiritual teacher can do what I just said, and it speeds the coming of the Kingdom, that person will be remembered later as the Messiah. With Yochanan gone, the role seems to have passed to me."

"Have you bragged about that? Or...what _have_ you done, to get the authorities so riled that they'll want to kill you?"

For the first time, Yeshua smiled. A "wicked" smile.

"For starters, I made a ruckus in the Temple. Overturned the tables of some of the moneychangers. You know what they do? People have to exchange coins with Caesar's picture on them for Temple currency, so they can buy animals for slaughter as sacrifices. But the exchange rates being charged are way out of line. And everyone knows the priests get a cut. I denounced the moneychangers and the priests."

He paused - no longer smiling. "A lot more than that is wrong. The only necessary part of the Temple is the Holy of Holies - where God Himself dwells. That, of course, is sacred! But it's an _affront_ to God to spend enormous sums on the upkeep of something the size of a palace, and the lazy lives of its priests, when there are people in need.

"When the Kingdom arrives, the Temple will be destroyed. Because God will have left it!

"I let the moneychangers hear me predict that. And made no secret of my name."

MacLeod winced. _I remember Yosef's saying that even as a teen, he had complaints about the Temple._

"You did all that, and Temple guards didn't arrest you on the spot?"

"They never saw me - you know the place is huge. And this week, crowded. Some of the moneychangers did run off to get guards, but I was gone before they got back."

_The priests will want his blood for "blasphemy," but there's nothing they can legally do about it._

"What have you done to antagonize the Romans?"

"Publicly called myself the future King of the Jews. Perhaps, when the Kingdom arrives, God _will_ install me as His regent! But the Romans only think in terms of armed rebellion."

MacLeod felt one hope slip away. Yeshua certainly _had_ said enough to get himself or an impostor executed...

_But if he and his disciples leave tonight and go back to Galilee, without a "traitor's" making an issue of what he's done, it's unlikely anyone will pursue them. This will blow over and be forgotten._

He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering strength.

Then he said, "Yeshua, _I know what you endured as a child._ I've heard about the rebellion in...Tzippori."

The other man's face seemed suddenly to harden. As if it had become a mask, and the person behind it was retreating somewhere.

"You _can't_ know. You weren't there..."

"When Yosef first mentioned it to me, I didn't catch the name of the place. When he said you'd seen Romans kill your father, I imagined someone striking out and killing him with a sword. That would have been bad enough, for a seven-year-old to see.

"But later, I learned it was Tzippori. Where most of the inhabitants of the city were _sold_ _into slavery_...I suppose your family only escaped that because you lived in Nazareth.

"_And two thousand rebels were crucified!_

"You saw your father _crucified_, didn't you? And I'm guessing you stayed with him till the end."

Yeshua somehow uttered a strangled "Yes." Took a few steadying breaths, then whispered, "It was like a _forest_ of crosses. Dying men on all of them. I couldn't see anything _but_ crosses..."

"Were you alone? Without any other members of your family?"

"Y-yes. I don't know why. But I stayed there...he could only moan...I don't think he knew I was there."

He was visibly trembling.

"But before...when they drove nails through his hands...I remember his screams.

"And there were wives and children of other crucified men. While the men were on the crosses, I remember the wives begging the Roman soldiers to break their husbands' legs..."

MacLeod nodded. The crosses on which men were crucified often had footrests; the men could brace themselves on the footrests and, as long as they had the strength, push themselves up slightly. The worst agony they were experiencing came from their upper bodies' hanging in a way that made it almost impossible for them to breathe, to get air into their tortured lungs.

At some point it would be clear the men had no chance of survival. But instinct or reflex would _compel_ them to keep struggling, using those footrests to push themselves up and prolong the agony. That was what their torturers intended! But sometimes, a soldier would show mercy and break their legs. Hard to believe something that painful could be construed as "merciful"; but it was.

"Think about the rest of it, Yeshua," MacLeod made himself insist. "All those men were naked, remember? Naked, bleeding...and at one time or another, all of them lost control of their bladders and bowels. _Do you remember the_ _stench?"_

_"Yes, yes!"_ Yeshua's face had gone chalk-white. "H-how do _you_ know..._that much?_"

Most people who weren't personally involved watched those messy, smelly crucifixions from a distance. And then, only when notorious criminals were being executed.

_"Because it was once done to me."_ MacLeod had never told anyone that after the death of his Japanese friend Hideo Koto - who'd been required to commit ritual suicide because he'd refused to kill the shipwrecked foreigner - he _hadn't_ gotten out of Japan without being apprehended.

"Not by the Romans - by an island people who couldn't tolerate outsiders. But the method of crucifixion was the same. And I thought I was really going to die, because they _beheaded the corpses_.

"I was so frantic about the prospect of beheading that I forgot what was going to happen while I was on the cross. My minor injuries healed, as Immortals' injuries always do. My captors were terrified - didn't know what sort of creature I was. So they took me down from the cross alive, put me in a small boat, and set it adrift. I was spotted and picked up by people on a larger, oceangoing vessel, and got safely away.

"I'd only been on the cross for about two hours. _But it was sheer agony_. If I've ever experienced anything worse, I don't remember it."

"I'm...thankful you survived." Yeshua sounded stunned. "And that you didn't have to endure it any longer than that.

"My father was alive on that cross for two _days_. Two days!

"I stayed there even after I knew he was dead. Trying to shoo the crows away from him. But I couldn't...

"I knew he'd be dumped into a mass grave. I still wanted to follow the body collectors, to be near him as long as possible.

"But I couldn't do that, either. I'd been without food or water for so long that I passed out."

At that moment, MacLeod felt like a lurking animal, who'd been waiting to pounce.

And hated himself.

But he had to do it.

"Yeshua...your brother Yehudah was only four years old then. Wasn't exposed to any of that horror.

"I'm guessing _Yehudah has never seen a crucifixion, even from a distance. Has never even heard a detailed description of what it involves!_ _**Am I right?"**_

To his surprise, Yeshua didn't react like a man who hadn't let himself give the matter much thought.

"Yes...you're right."

_"And you mean to let him go through with this?_ I don't doubt that he volunteered - that as you've said, the plan was his. _**But **__**he has no idea of what he's letting himself in for! Can you do this...to your own younger brother?"**_

He saw misery in Yeshua's eyes. But still, the man said steadily, "If you tell him those 'details' now - or even if I do - he won't back out."

"No, I'm sure he won't 'back out'! His sense of honor, and his devotion to you, won't let him do that. But do you feel certain, in your own mind, that he would have _suggested_ _this_ if he'd known what he'd have to endure?"

He barely heard the whispered "No."

But a moment later, Yeshua had rallied, and spoke more firmly. "Despite that, the likely _result_ of the plan - speeding the arrival of the Kingdom - justifies the sacrifice. God may even have inspired Yehudah to think of it.

"However long he suffers on the cross, it will be as nothing compared with the eternity of happiness he'll enjoy in God's Kingdom!"

MacLeod wanted to scream.

But he made himself speak calmly, and - he hoped - reasonably.

"Yeshua, when you were fifteen, you weren't sure whether 'Sheol' existed. I assume you do believe it exists now, because those dead who you think will be revived must be waiting _somewhere_. Unless you believe they'll be recreated from scratch.

"But when you were younger, you weren't sure. And you have no better reason to be _sure_ of the 'coming Kingdom' you believe in now! Yehudah may be destined to exist for all eternity, or the hours of suffering he'll endure now may be _the_ _entirety_ _of his existence_. Can you _presume_ to take that chance with another man's life?"

He thought that for an instant, he saw a trace of doubt. But then Yeshua said, "The Kingdom isn't something I've dreamed up! Yochanan believed in it...earlier teachers as well. My faith is in Yochanan. _He_ wouldn't have been deceived!"

"You're admitting you haven't received a direct revelation from God," MacLeod argued. "You were convinced by a preacher's eloquence. _He_ may have been convinced by _another_ preacher's eloquence, and so on, with none of them knowing where the idea originally came from."

"No! I'm sure...I'm sure...God wouldn't have _let_ us come this far if He didn't want us to go through with it!" Yeshua made a move to get around MacLeod and head back to the others.

MacLeod no longer perceived himself as an animal. Now he was an archer, reaching - in desperation - for what he thought was the last arrow in his quiver. The one he'd hoped never to have to use.

_"Yeshua!"_ He gripped the other man, lowered his voice to an urgent whisper. "I'm going to tell you something - trust you with a secret I haven't even shared with Yosef.

"First, I want to make clear I _am_ an Immortal of the kind Yosef's told you about. Not 'special' in any way - _except_ for something that's happened to me.

"I wasn't born in this time period. Crazy as it sounds, I was born almost sixteen hundred years in the future! Spent more of my life in the future than in this time period - and I've been here for three hundred years, so I'm telling you I'm more than six hundred years old.

"My being transported back through time was a fluke. I'd need hours to even half-explain it, and we don't have those hours. So you'll just have to accept that I _was_ transported back through time - not by my own choice.

"I'll be born - almost sixteen hundred years from now - into a world very much like this one. It _won't_ have been replaced by 'God's Kingdom'! Won't be replaced by 'God's Kingdom' in any future century I know.

"And while many bad things will happen in the future, many good things will happen as well. We won't just be lingering in misery.

"_Please, __**please**_ believe me! The 'Kingdom'_** isn't **_coming soon - if ever!"

Yeshua's response was a stony stare.

And then: "Ridiculous. I don't believe a word of what you just said.

"_Yosef_ has put you up to this, hasn't he? I know he's never believed in the Kingdom!"

_**"No!"**_

MacLeod was crushed. He sensed that if he'd made _any_ headway with Yeshua, he'd just lost it.

Once again, Yeshua tried to brush past him.

And he suddenly realized what he should have been arguing from the start.

"Yeshua, listen to me! The fundamental issue here is _honesty_. _**Your**_ honesty, whatever you think of mine - though I wasn't lying, in anything I just said.

"If you go through with this plan, the movement you'll be leading, every moment of your ministry, will be based on a _lie_. You yourself, and the disciples you have now, will be forced to live with that lie for the rest of your lives!

"People will _ask_ about your 'resurrection' - don't think they won't! Earnest seekers of truth...and you'll have to lie to them. The wrongness of what you're doing - and what you're forcing your disciples to do - will torment you every day of your life.

_"Can that possibly be what God wants? A movement dependent on a __**lie?**__"_

He saw that he had, at least, struck a nerve.

"One more thing," he said softly. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm the only man here who's armed. I _could_ have backed you into this alcove and murdered you. Problem solved!

"But for better or worse, my sense of morality won't let me do that.

"What will _your_ sense of morality let _you_ do, Yeshua?"

Yeshua pushed him out of the way and strode back into the dining room.


	6. Chapter 6

MacLeod had always preferred Salvador Dali's vision of this famous meal to Leonardo da Vinci's. But neither of them had imagined anything like the tense, fearful reality.

_The Last Supper,_ he thought bitterly. _But __**whose? **_

He hadn't given up hope that Yeshua would relent, and it would be no one's.

He had no idea who'd prepared the meal - hadn't thought to ask. But that didn't matter; nor did the quality of the food. No one had an appetite. They were mostly just stirring food around on their plates, making the pretense of eating.

While he'd been pleading with Yeshua, Yosef had learned more details from the disciples. One of them had been chosen by lot to be the "betrayer"; the luckless person who'd drawn the specially marked straw was the only one who knew who it was. Not even Yeshua or Yehudah knew.

_But I do. And for __**this**__, poor Kerioth will be reviled for thousands of years!_

When they were nearing the end of the meal, the "betrayer" would leave and carry out his mission. He was to go to the headquarters of the Temple guards, and tell them all Yeshua's "offenses" - if they didn't already know. Offenses not only against the Temple and its priests, but against Rome, that surely required the man be crucified! He'd acknowledge that he'd been a disciple, but pretend he'd turned against his former idol after witnessing the "blasphemy" in the Temple.

He'd tell the guards he could lead them to Yeshua - knew where he'd be within the next hour. He'd explain that the separated band of disciples planned to meet before returning to the home where they'd been staying, so as not to annoy their hosts by straggling in a few at a time. And he'd take the guards to a place they'd actually used for that purpose - a shack where, during the day, oil was pressed from olives.

All the disciples would be there. They'd feign horror at the "betrayal." But no one would deny that the man their former companion identified as Yeshua _was_ Yeshua. And no one would mount any resistance to his arrest.

MacLeod had found irony in the site chosen for that arrest. _I'd never realized...in Aramaic, the word meaning "oil press" is __**Gethsemane**__. And I know where the blasted thing is - near a hill called the Mount of Olives. Some "garden"!_

_Was it fewer than twenty-four hours ago that I found myself arranging __**olives**__ to form a death's-head?_

The men were reclining at table - the custom in this era. And at several small tables, not one large one. Nevertheless, he'd managed to position himself so that every time Yeshua looked up, he'd have to meet _his_ accusing, reproachful gaze.

He could see that Yeshua was torn.

_He knows Yehudah is the only one of the disciples who approves of this vile scheme. The others just don't have the guts to speak up, to oppose their "Messiah."_

_Even if he doesn't believe what I told him about the future, he knows I'm __**three**__ hundred years old. Being older than he is doesn't necessarily make me wiser, but it does make me more experienced._

_And I must have "planted a seed" of __**doubt**__, at least, about the future!_

But if he'd planted that kind of seed, it had little time to take root and grow...

Yosef nudged him. "Gershom?"

"Yes?"

Whispering now: "I, uh, hate to mention this. But...one of the disciples just slipped out. Kerioth."

MacLeod couldn't suppress a shudder.

_Why am I thinking of Caesar's crossing the Rubicon?_

A few minutes later, he saw Yeshua look around the room...and wince.

_He knows_.

More minutes passed. Interminably.

More _men_ looked around the room...surreptitiously counting heads.

There were more visible shudders.

At last Yeshua got to his feet. In a slightly shaky voice, he reminded the disciples (as if they needed to be reminded!) that one of them was prepared to make the supreme sacrifice for the advancement of their cause.

Everyone turned to look at Yehudah. Who was - commendably, from one point of view - the only calm, composed person there.

Yeshua said, "I b-believe..." All eyes were on him again.

It was MacLeod who managed to _lock_ eyes with him.

But he took a deep breath, then turned away. "I'm aware not everyone here approves of what we're about to do. But the only approval we need is God's. That, I _know_ we have."

He raised his cup, newly filled with red wine. Nodded toward Yehudah, saying, "I honor your sacrifice, my brother." Put the cup to his lips.

And let out an ear-splitting shriek.

x

x

x

He thrust the cup away from his mouth - revealing a stain on his lips that didn't look like wine.

_"Blood...__**blood!**__"_ he screamed. He tried to fling the cup away altogether - and seemingly couldn't. Then he began desperately shaking his hand, as if the cup was stuck to it.

Not only could he not dislodge it, the cup jerked his hand into a position where it was "aimed" at his head. And then it _spat_ blood on him - torrents of it, _drenching_ him.

MacLeod didn't need to look around the room to know everyone was seeing what he was. All the men were screaming.

It got worse. Yeshua seemed actually to be _trying_ _to_ _vomit_...

He succeeded. And _threw up_ more torrents of blood.

And then, as suddenly as the horror had begun, it was over. A gasping, trembling Yeshua was standing there, gazing into an empty cup...with not a drop of blood on him.

He set the cup down, carefully, on the table. "D-did everyone see...?"

Stunned murmurs of assent. Badly shaken, some of the men were in tears.

The walls of the room - even those of the building - weren't that thick. Anyone who'd been nearby should have come on the run to determine the cause of all those screams.

But no one had. So the screams must have gone unheard.

That was just as miraculous as the appearance and disappearance of the blood.

A gray-faced Yeshua pulled himself erect and said, "All right. There's...only one way to interpret what just happened.

"It was a message from God, telling us He _doesn't_ want us to go through with the plan. Reprimanding me for my pride, in assuming I knew His will."

x

x

x

Yehudah was the first person to react. He leapt to his feet, yelling, "No!"

"I'm changing the plan, Yehudah!" Suddenly, Yeshua sounded like a commander of men. "Those guards are going to arrest _the real me_."

Then everyone began yelling.

Everyone but MacLeod.

He was in a state of shock. Weak with relief that Yehudah wouldn't be allowed to impersonate his brother...but still stricken by the knowledge that _he'd_ unintentionally set all this in motion, decades ago.

_It __**can't**__ end with Yeshua's dying! It's __**my fault**__..._

Yeshua pounded on the table. "Keep your voices down! We can't expect another miracle to keep outsiders from bursting in on us."

After a measure of order had been restored, the man who'd been introduced to MacLeod as Cephas - _Peter_, MacLeod had realized - said urgently, "There's no need for any of us to go to that meeting-place, rabbi! Kerioth will be delighted if the guards find no one there. And they won't blame him - they'll just think you'd become suspicious of him."

Yeshua was shaking his head. "No. At this point, they'll need to make an arrest. They probably won't arrest Kerioth. But after what he's told them, they won't just let it go. They'll inform the Romans. Then _Pilate's_ men will hunt me, disciples they believe are loyal -"

On impulse, a desperate MacLeod cut in. "Maybe I can catch up with Kerioth and stop him, before he tells them anything! He was on foot - if I can find a horse somewhere, I'm a good rider -"

But even as he said it, he realized he had no idea where he could beg, borrow, or steal a horse in Jerusalem.

"Thank you for offering, Gershom." The look in Yeshua's eyes told MacLeod the man was belatedly thanking him for more than that. "But the truth is that it's too late, even if someone _could_ overtake Kerioth.

"I've antagonized too many people..."

_**Needlessly**__ antagonized them_, MacLeod thought wretchedly. _Foolishly? Yes. But still, needlessly antagonized them because of things __**I'd**__ said._

"...and enough supporters who live near here have been seen with me," Yeshua was saying, "that _they'd_ be in danger, even if no one pursued our group to Galilee.

"Our friends in Bethany. Possibly even Yosef - hear me out, Yosef! Not only you would be in danger, but also your wife and her family!

"I'm sure the Romans don't know we're related now. But if they were frustrated by 'losing' me, they'd ask enough questions that they'd find all my kin in Judea."

Yehudah - who'd been weeping uncontrollably - cried out, "Let me confess that it was all my doing! My crazy plan to 'die in your place,' you having nothing to do with it -"

"_No."_ Yeshua was brooking no opposition. "They'd never accept that the plan would have gone as far as it did without my agreeing. And I really did say the things I'll be accused of saying! If you tried to claim it was you, they'd call in people who'd heard me - and our voices are nothing alike.

"You'd only succeed in getting _both_ of us crucified. I won't allow that!"

Yehudah grabbed him, screaming, "I'm coming with you!"

"You're _not!_ And I can't spend more time arguing with you!" Yeshua tried unsuccessfully to shake him off. Looked around frantically in search of help...

MacLeod understood that there was no way Yeshua could cope with a near-hysterical brother. And the disciples were too stunned to act. So he stepped in, seized Yehudah, and with one swift martial arts move, knocked him out.

"He'll be all right," he assured Yeshua. "But he'll be out for an hour or so."

"Thank you, Gershom!" Yeshua hesitated, then said quietly, "I want you to know that I brought this on myself. I made the mistake of wanting something so much that I refused to see that the way I hoped to bring it about was immoral.

"I'm _glad_ that before more harm could be done, I learned that lesson.

"_And I don't want anyone to suffer because of me_. Please, Gershom...don't blame yourself, for anything!"

Fighting back tears, MacLeod murmured, "Thank _you_...rabbi."

x

x

x

A grieving MacLeod was sitting on the floor beside the unconscious Yehudah, his face buried in his hands.

The other men hadn't left yet; he could still hear anxious voices. Yeshua was allowing the disciples time to compose themselves. They didn't really need to rush; if the Temple guards reached the oil press before they did, they'd surely be prepared to wait for an hour or more.

MacLeod had promised to stay with Yosef, and help him restrain Yehudah till morning. They couldn't risk his butting in, confronting the guards and casting doubt on their identification of Yeshua.

_Oh, Yeshua..._

_Maybe you will have a reunion with your father - or a thought-form you'll be able to accept as your father - in another dimensional realm. I hope you will. _

_But if that happens, you and he won't "live happily ever after." It will be brief._

_You'll almost certainly reincarnate. Many times. Every life will be influenced, in unpredictable ways, by subconscious memories of all your previous lives. Possibly, less of what you've __**done**__ in those lives than of what you've __**learned**__. It's unlikely you'll ever consciously remember much about any of them._

_Until, perhaps, humankind has become extinct, and all the Mind that passed through it has been reabsorbed into a larger Consciousness that will remember everything._

_But no one knows for sure._

What he did know for sure was that the unwitting "founder of Christianity" was a remarkable man. An admirable man.

He suddenly realized someone was tapping him on the shoulder. "Gershom?"

"Uh...yes?" He looked up into the tearstained face of Yosef.

"I need to ask a favor. Can Cephas borrow your sword? I promise you'll get it back..."

"Wh-what? My _sword_? Wh-why..."

He'd been about to ask why Cephas needed one. But then, memories came flooding back.

Yosef said quickly, "He almost certainly won't use it. He just wants to be able to provide some protection for Yeshua, in case the guards decide to assassinate him on the spot rather than arrest him."

MacLeod had to point out, "That would be a quicker, easier death than crucifixion."

"Yes. But don't forget, I'm a member of the Sanhedrin! I want a trial, so I can try to convince them Yeshua's never intended an insurrection. That's the only act of sedition for which a person should be sentenced to death.

"A majority could decide to release him, or send him on to Pilate - with or without a recommendation of some sort. Only Pilate has the authority to pronounce a death sentence."

"The Sanhedrin won't know you're...biased?"

"No." A wry smile. "I've never mentioned that Yeshua's my nephew. Not because I was 'keeping it secret.' Because until now, none of the other members had ever _heard of him_, and I hadn't imagined they ever would!"

"I understand." Sadly, he was sure Yosef wouldn't be able to influence the Sanhedrin.

_But if I were to tell him how I know, he'd think my mind has snapped._

So he handed Yosef the sword.

The sword he'd purchased in Ynnis-Witrin. When even _he_ had been younger and more naive.

_The Gospels mentioned Peter's having a sword. Scholars puzzled over that - where he'd gotten it, why a disciple of the supposedly nonviolent Jesus would have been carrying such a thing._

_Now I know._

_And whether or not Cephas uses it to cut a man's ear off, I also know that this - __**all**__ of it! - __**is**__ the original history._


	7. Chapter 7

MacLeod never saw the crucifixion.

He'd held an angry Yehudah prisoner, all night, in the room where they'd had the Passover meal.

Yosef had been compelled to rush home - so he, like the other members of the Sanhedrin, could be rousted out of bed by a messenger summoning them to an emergency session. He'd known the matter would be dealt with on an urgent basis, so if there was a decision to be made by Pilate, he could be informed quickly. He wouldn't be in Jerusalem long, and might have numerous problems to deal with.

A distraught Yosef returned in the morning with the news that he'd failed to sway anyone. Most of the other non-priestly members of the Sanhedrin had refused to come back to the Temple complex at that hour. So they'd barely had a quorum, and the offended priests had prevailed. Yeshua had been sent on to Pilate...and Yosef had subsequently learned he was to be crucified.

He was so upset that MacLeod knew he couldn't leave him alone to guard the still-frenzied Yehudah. So he stayed with them till late afternoon, when Cephas came to tell them the crucifixion had taken place. Yeshua had evidently been scourged so severely that death on the cross had, at least, been mercifully quick.

Cephas returned MacLeod's sword. He didn't say whether he'd used it; and MacLeod didn't ask. If he had used it, he'd cleaned it.

What MacLeod did ask, quietly, was, "Do you know where Kerioth is? Is he all right?"

A guilty expression came over Cephas's face. "I don't know where anyone is. I wish now that I did.

"Yeshua had advised us to scatter after he was arrested, and we took his advice. I did go to the Temple, hung around outside, and I was grabbed and questioned - more than once. I denied knowing him.

"I watched the crucifixion from a distance. Didn't see any of the others there."

"But was Kerioth taking it hard, when you last saw him?" MacLeod pressed. "I can't even imagine the shock he must have gotten, when he realized he actually _had_ led the guards to his 'Messiah.' He would have known it must have been Yeshua's choice, but even so -"

"You're right, it was terrible." Cephas shuddered at the memory. "He made his 'identification' before he looked closely enough to see it was the real Yeshua. He realized it seconds later, and I thought he was about to faint.

"Instead, he made a grab for the guards' lead officer - probably intending to _take back_ that identification! But Yeshua stopped him with a look.

"When I last saw him, he was sobbing. Seemed completely...shattered."

Cephas paused to reflect for a moment, then said, "With...everything else that was happening...I don't think Yeshua ever realized it would be worse for Kerioth than for the rest of us."

"I hope he didn't," MacLeod said quietly.

_"I don't want anyone to suffer because of me..."_

x

x

x

Cephas and Yehudah left together, Yehudah still cursing his uncle and "Gershom."

"He'll be all right," MacLeod told the anxious Yosef. "Cephas won't let any harm come to him."

_I need to believe that!_

_Maybe Yehudah won't be around here because he really will go to India. Or maybe he'll stay near home and never do much preaching - Yeshua said he had no aptitude for it, wasn't even willing to try._

One thing he was sure of: Yehudah was now so sickened by deceit that he'd never try posing as a resurrected Yeshua.

_The disciple I have to worry about is Kerioth._

MacLeod couldn't remember when he'd last slept. He was exhausted. But he couldn't get Kerioth out of his mind, couldn't banish the image of the young disciple gaping in horror as he recognized Yeshua...

_Is it only because I'm so old that he seemed, to me, hardly more than a boy?_

But he was still concerned for the friend he was with. "Yosef...will _you_ be all right if I leave now? I hate to go, but I want to find Kerioth -"

"Of course, Gershom!" Yosef grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "I'd go with you to look for him, but I have to go home and tell Hannah what's happened. She doesn't even know why I was called away in the middle of the night. And she'll be heartbroken - she loved Yeshua, even though we didn't see him often.

"I'll be praying that you'll find Kerioth safe. What he's gone through must have been...a waking nightmare!"

x

x

x

MacLeod remembered the places Yosef had suggested they look for the disciples the day before. So he began his search by racing from one to another of those locations, starting with the home of the friends in Bethany.

At every stop, a scared-looking follower of Yeshua's - or a longtime family friend - told him there'd been no sign of Kerioth.

He knew there were accounts of "Judas Iscariot's" fate in the early Christian writings. Indicating that he'd either hanged himself, or died in some other horrible way.

_But those accounts are inconsistent. And they'll be written decades from now._

_The disciples will never admit the truth...how can they? Whatever actually becomes of Kerioth, they'll have to describe him as a villain who deliberately betrayed Yeshua. And then, necessarily, came to a bad end._

_Their stories about the "betrayal," and Kerioth's death, will be put in writing by a later generation - that really believes them._

_So I have __**no**__ way of knowing what's going to happen to him now! I can't "change history." But I __**can**__ do my utmost to make it a history in which that young man's life isn't ruined._

_"Free will," _he thought grimly, _with a preordained outcome..._

x

x

x

He didn't find Kerioth, as he'd hoped, with any known acquaintances.

_But I can't quit. Another place he might have gone..._

He remembered the infamous "thirty pieces of silver."

One of the Gospels claimed the priests had paid Judas that sum for his information...and after the betrayal, he'd been so ravaged by guilt that he'd returned to the Temple and flung the coins back at them.

_Kerioth wouldn't have asked for payment. But if they offered it, saying it was what they normally paid for valuable information, he probably would have accepted it - thinking it might seem "suspicious" to refuse. And later, he might very well have flung their money back at them!_

_If that really happened, they might be able to tell me where he was headed when he left the Temple. Or at least, whether he seemed so upset that he might harm himself._

So he rushed to the headquarters of the Temple guards - the first people Kerioth would have met there.

He'd decided that in this case, the end he had in mind _did_ justify the means: a harmless lie.

"I'm trying to help a friend of mine, who's worried about his missing son. A young adult who'd fallen in with bad company, a fanatic named Yeshua and his followers.

"Young Kerioth - sorry, that's a nickname, his name is Yehudah - finally realized Yeshua was dangerous, a threat to both the Temple and the State. He was headed here last night - with his father's approval! - to denounce him. We know he must have done that, because Yeshua was arrested and crucified. But Kerioth hasn't turned up anywhere, and we're searching for him - afraid Yeshua's men may have harmed him.

"Can you tell me when he was last here? Whether he at least left here safely, and where he might have been headed?"

The guard he'd approached had listened, it seemed, sympathetically. Now he said, "None of the guards here now were on duty last night. But your friend's son would have been taken to see the priests, anyway. Come with me, and you can ask them about it."

Minutes later, MacLeod was surprised to find himself in the sanctuary of the _High_ Priest, Caiaphas. A stern-looking man...but one who willingly heard him out.

"I remember the lad well, of course." Caiaphas seemed genuinely concerned. "He gave us valuable information. Yeshua couldn't have been arrested for calling himself the Messiah - harmless fanatics do that all the time! But his threat to destroy the Temple - the dwelling place of God - was blasphemy."

_A prediction, not a threat_, MacLeod thought. He doubted Yeshua would have worded it as a threat, even when he was deliberately giving offense. _And...did Caiaphas understand that Yeshua expected the destruction to take place only after God had "left" the Temple?_

"He couldn't have been executed for blasphemy, though," Caiaphas was saying. Regretfully - or at least, that was the way it sounded to MacLeod. "But calling himself the future King of the Jews was a serious enough offense. Your young friend - Kerioth? - gave us a sworn statement that he'd done that. Dictated it to one of our scribes, made his mark."

_Illiterate, of course,_ MacLeod realized. _I wonder whether even Yeshua ever learned to write?_

"We'd taken other sworn statements, but this was the kind we really needed - coming from a disillusioned former disciple.

"Still, we passed the case on to Pilate with no recommendation about the death penalty, one way or the other. We've learned there's not much point in making recommendations! Pilate kills people or doesn't kill them, on a whim. The decision might depend on whether he woke up with a headache."

_Oh._

"As I recall, young Kerioth only reluctantly took payment for his information. And he came back, two hours later, in a frenzy! Threw the money back at us.

"He was so upset - about something - that he was incoherent. We never did figure out what his problem was. I _guessed_ he was afraid of Yeshua's accomplices, terrified that they were going to kill him. But that was just a guess.

"There was nothing physically wrong with him when he stormed out of here. But I have no idea where he was headed. Sorry I can't be of more help!"

x

x

x

MacLeod thanked Caiaphas and hurried on his way. He'd at least learned one thing, that he wished he hadn't: Kerioth _had_ been dangerously distraught.

_I still can't give up._

_"I don't want anyone to suffer because of me..."_

_I owe it to __**Yeshua**__ to do everything in my power to find Kerioth and help him through this!_

And he had another idea. An unpleasant one...but an idea, nonetheless.

The tale of Judas's having returned that money to the priests had gone on to say they couldn't put it back in the treasury, because it was now "blood money." So they'd used it to buy "the potter's field" - which was later called, for that reason, the "Field of Blood."

In that story, Judas had hanged himself, at some unstated location.

But in another story, he'd _died_ - in a gruesome way - in "the potter's field." And _that_ was why it was later called the "Field of Blood."

Scholars held that the field had almost certainly acquired that name because of the red color of its clay - the feature that had made it desirable, in the first place, to actual makers of pottery. But its having been mentioned in two different "Judas" stories could mean it had some relevance.

MacLeod hadn't dared ask Caiaphas. If the priests were considering buying that field, there was no way he could have explained his having known. But now - despite having, a while back, lived in Jerusalem for years - he had no idea where the field _was!_

_"I don't want anyone to suffer because of me..."_

So he spent more precious time rushing about, stopping random people to ask if they knew its whereabouts. Pretending he - obviously not a local - was a potter, who'd heard of this field with its wonderful red clay, and was eager to check it out.

At last, he found it.

And also found, hanging from one of the field's few trees, the dead body of Kerioth.

x

x

x

He sat beneath the tree and wept, till he no longer had the strength even for that.

_Should I have gone to the Temple first?_

_Should I have thought of "the potter's field" __**without**__ that reminder, and come __**here**__ first?_

Kerioth's body had been cold to the touch, so he knew he hadn't just missed saving him. But beyond that, he couldn't estimate how long the youth had been dead.

_"Free will," with a preordained outcome..._

At last, he somehow got to his feet.

_I can't even give him a decent burial. Have to leave him here for someone else to find, to start the stories about hanging, and the field itself._

_Forgive me, Kerioth. Forgive all of us!_

He wouldn't even remember how he'd staggered back to his inn, gotten drunk, and fallen into bed.

x

x

x

He was awakened by more knocking on his door, and a familiar voice calling, "Gershom? Gershom, are you there?"

He half-rolled out of bed, stumbled to the door.

This time Yosef did say, "You look terrible."

_Despite_ his looking as bad or worse.

"I found Kerioth," MacLeod said dully. "Found him dead, a suicide. He'd hanged himself from a tree."

Now he let himself have the thought he hadn't been willing to entertain before. _Maybe the owner of the field will decide to sell it, and the priests to buy it, __**because**__ the "betrayer" killed himself there._

Yosef sagged into a chair. "Oh, God. I was so hoping you'd find him alive... Will this horror never end?"

"At least there aren't likely to be reprisals against Yeshua's kin and friends. He was probably right in thinking that if he escaped, there would have been."

"True." But Yosef acknowledged that with a shrug of his shoulders.

MacLeod was just becoming alert enough to realize it was broad daylight. So he'd slept through the night...but might it have been more than one night? He had one hell of a hangover...

"Uh...what day is this?"

Yosef didn't seem surprised at his needing to ask. "It's the Sabbath."

So he hadn't slept through an entire day. _I think the real reason I'm confused is that so much happened yesterday, after the crucifixion, that it's hard to believe so little time has passed._

"Gershom..." Yosef was wringing his hands, a sure sign of nervousness. "I hate taking advantage of you! But...can I ask you for another favor?"

"Of course! Anything!" _Having something to __**do**__ will probably do me a world of good right now._

"First, I need to explain...after we parted yesterday, I learned two robbers had been crucified at the same time as Yeshua. They'd also died quickly - would have been finished off in any case, so their bodies could be taken down before the Sabbath.

"I c-couldn't bear the thought of Yeshua's being dumped into a grave with two common criminals. And I thought his kin in Galilee, or his disciples, would want his body in any case. So I went out there with a few workmen I employ, and paid the gravediggers to give it to me."

MacLeod's mouth had fallen open.

With everything else that had been happening, he'd completely forgotten that the Gospels had Jesus being buried in Joseph of Arimathea's family tomb!

_But what he's saying seems different. "Kin in Galilee"? "Disciples"?_

"Y-you didn't need Pilate's permission?" That was part of the story as he remembered it.

"Permission? Of course not. For all I know, Pilate might even have left Jerusalem by then. All I needed was money.

"I put the body in our family tomb - Hannah's family tomb - temporarily, so he'd be entombed before the Sabbath. Hoped, really _expected_, that I'd see Yehudah or some of the other disciples today. But all of them have apparently dropped out of sight, for fear of being arrested.

"So I'm going to retrieve Yeshua's body after midnight tonight, when the Sabbath is over. With my workmen, of course. _We'll_ have to take it to Galilee. I can't keep it here any longer - Hannah's family will have no problem with my being buried in that tomb, but they wouldn't tolerate any of my 'low-class' relatives, regardless of how they'd died!

"I'm nervous about traveling all that way with the body of a man some thought was the Messiah. My workmen aren't any more capable of fending off a possible attack than I am. You're the only person I know who _could_ defend us.

"So...are you willing to come?"

A stunned MacLeod said simply, "Of course."

_"Free will," with a preordained outcome..._

x

x

x

When they opened the tomb, MacLeod saw Yeshua's body. There was no doubting his identity. And the scourging had been vicious: he probably would have died from shock and blood loss even if he hadn't been crucified.

Their journey to Galilee was uneventful.

But the news of Yeshua's execution had preceded them. And all his kin in Nazareth had gone into hiding, for fear _they'd_ be arrested.

They wound up confiding in the local rabbi. He told them Yeshua's mother - Yosef's sister Miryam - and his half-siblings had considered his "ministry" an embarrassment. Under the circumstances, they wouldn't want his body.

But the rabbi - despite having had his own doctrinal differences with Yeshua - had always respected him. So he agreed to provide a dignified, reverent burial, on the condition it be kept secret.

Even as MacLeod saw it done, he knew one of those half-siblings would come to believe in the resurrection. Would, in fact, become head of the earliest Christian sect in the Holy Land.

_Yaakov. Or as future Christians will call him, "James the Just."_

_Whose belief in his brother will get him stoned to death._


	8. Chapter 8

Most of the time now, MacLeod was numb. Fatalistically accepting whatever was going to happen.

_"Free will," with a preordained outcome..._

When he wasn't numb, he was tortured by guilt.

_"I don't want anyone to suffer because of me..."_

_How many __**will**__ suffer, directly or indirectly, because of Yeshua?_

_All the hundreds who'll be martyred - some of them foolishly __**seeking**__ martyrdom - for professing beliefs that weren't even really his._

_All the thousands who'll be slaughtered, in later centuries, for refusing to convert._

_All the tens of thousands who'll be "converted" by force, at the cost of destroying entire civilizations, their cultures and traditions._

_All the __**millions**__ who'll be massacred due to Christianity's having fostered anti-Semitism._

_All the lesser kinds of suffering. Everything from converts being taught masochistic self-abuse is "saintly," to children fearing they'll be tortured for all eternity if they die without getting to a priest, and confessing they'd swallowed a morsel of meat before they remembered it was Friday._

_If not for that idea I gave Yehudah, Yeshua would never have antagonized the authorities to the extent that they'd have him crucified._

_**So I'm to blame for all of it!**_

Yes, it could have been worse, if Yeshua had gone through with Yehudah's plan. Might even have been worse if _he_, so swept up in emotion that he'd lost his own moral compass, had succeeded in changing history by preventing the crucifixion. But with those crises averted, MacLeod was back to agonizing over his responsibility for the history of Christianity as he knew it.

It had, certainly, brought about a great deal of good.

_Truly_ saintly Christians, down through the ages, had sought to emulate Jesus by devoting their lives to helping those in need - the poor, the disabled, the ostracized. Concern for others hadn't really been Yeshua's core teaching, but it _was_ the one that deserved to be remembered and highlighted.

Unfortunately, MacLeod couldn't convince himself that teaching had been so unique that decent people wouldn't have picked it up from some other source.

He was morosely silent during the journey back to Jerusalem. So was Yosef.

x

x

x

Back in his lodgings, MacLeod began packing to leave. He had no reason to stay. Yosef was his only friend in Jerusalem, and they still couldn't risk the Watchers - or Yosef's wife - seeing them together.

Besides, in his present mood, he wanted to put Jerusalem far behind him.

He wouldn't go without a last talk with his onetime Watcher. But he was sure Yosef would have more news for him...and would come to the inn, where they could talk in private.

What he really wanted was to unburden himself completely. Tell his friend everything.

But he'd realized he couldn't. Time travel...from five million years in the future?

One problem was Yosef's being a Watcher. MacLeod couldn't conceive of letting their organization know such a thing was possible. And he'd be putting an unfair burden on Yosef if he asked him to keep it secret.

But even without that consideration, he'd be doing Yosef no favor by telling him about the long-term future. Yosef - like everyone in his time period - didn't even understand that Earth revolves around the Sun. _If_ MacLeod could adequately explain that future era, its wonders and its weaknesses, Yosef would never again be able to put it out of his mind..._or_ discuss it with anyone else. And this was a man who felt pain at not being able to discuss the Watchers with his wife!

No. If MacLeod were to tell him about any of the time travel, it could only be the little he'd told Yeshua. And he'd only told Yeshua in hopes of convincing him God's Kingdom on Earth wouldn't exist hundreds of years in the future. Yosef had never believed in the Kingdom.

_He already knows I unintentionally caused this tragedy, by saying what I did that night in Britain. Why burden him with more "extraordinary knowledge," just for the sake of admitting I expected a crucifixion, and I'd come to Jerusalem to observe it?_

MacLeod was glad he'd thought that through...because the knock at his door came sooner than he'd expected.

x

x

x

A harried-looking Yosef glanced at the packed bags, and said, "So you are leaving? I expected it...though I hoped I was wrong."

"Yes. But I wouldn't have gone without telling you, saying goodbye."

Yosef managed a smile. "I know. But...I have so much to tell _you!_ You won't believe what's happened."

_Oh, I'll believe it_, MacLeod thought. _I'll just have to act surprised_.

As soon as they were settled in chairs, Yosef launched into his story.

"I hadn't realized this. But before Yeshua and his disciples came to Jerusalem, he'd told all his supporters in Galilee they were coming, for Passover. Encouraged them to come as well. Some did. And as part of Yehudah's plan, he'd told them that if his enemies killed him before he'd completed his mission, God would raise him from the dead on the third day.

"Some of those followers - women, less likely to be arrested than the men - watched the crucifixion. And while I wasn't aware of it at the time, they were still lurking around there when I claimed Yeshua's body. They had no idea who I was, but they followed me and saw me put it in the tomb. Assumed the burial was meant to be permanent.

"They came back on the morning of 'the third day' - a few hours after we'd removed the body. They got a gardener to roll the stone back by saying they wanted to anoint the body that was newly buried there. But they were really hoping they'd find the tomb empty - Yeshua resurrected. And when they _did_ find it empty, they naturally - well, 'naturally' for them, given their faith in him - jumped to the conclusion he _had_ been resurrected!

"They ran off and told others. Evidently, some of those followers did manage to find and tell the actual disciples. Among their little group, the news seems to have spread like wildfire - before I could hear about it and shoot it down.

"Now I'm hearing reports of people having _seen_ the 'risen' Yeshua. I assume they're having 'visions' - maybe brought on by drugs or alcohol, or just religious frenzy.

"I've tried to set the record straight. But devotees who want to believe in a 'resurrection' won't listen to me. They insist I'm just trying to avoid being publicly linked with Yeshua in stories that include the family tomb.

"And it doesn't help that I can't tell anyone where he's buried, because of that promise we made to the rabbi in Nazareth!"

MacLeod was shaking his head, as if in near-disbelief. "This...this is...amazing!"

In fact, he'd anticipated this outcome, or one very much like it, from the moment Yosef had reminded him of his connection with a tomb.

Scholars had cast doubt on the existence of "Joseph of Arimathea" primarily _because of_ the "empty tomb" story. They'd theorized that it was invented by early Christians, decades after the crucifixion, to serve a dual purpose: to provide better "evidence" for the resurrection, and to make it appear that at least one person with wealth and influence had recognized greatness in Jesus (as shown by his having provided him with the decent burial never accorded crucified criminals).

They'd pointed out that in one of his surviving letters, written before the Gospels, the Apostle Paul had cited "proofs" of the resurrection that didn't include a tomb found empty. _Why_ had he not included this - supposedly - "strongest" piece of evidence? Because the story hadn't been made up yet!

_That was one possible explanation_, MacLeod thought now. _But there was another: that in Paul's experience, it __**wasn't**__ strong evidence. Maybe most nonbelievers who heard the "empty tomb" story reacted by saying, "Of course the tomb was empty - his disciples had moved the body!"_

But in reality, it wasn't the disciples who'd moved the body. They hadn't even known it was _in_ that tomb until they heard of its having vanished. And they couldn't have made an immediate check with Yosef, because he'd been en route to Galilee.

Nevertheless, MacLeod was slightly puzzled...

"I can understand the women believing he'd been resurrected," he said slowly. "And their husbands or whoever. Because he'd told them he'd rise on the third day if he was killed.

"But the disciples? They knew he didn't really expect any such thing."

Yosef said, "I think they're prepared to believe in miracles now. Remember, all of us actually saw one, at the Passover meal!" He shivered. "We never have talked about that. I think I've been too awed to mention it. I suppose you have, too.

"God didn't want Yeshua to let Yehudah die in his place. But when Yeshua courageously chose his own death... I can understand the disciples' believing God might have provided another miracle to bring him back. I could believe it myself, if I hadn't seen him reburied in Galilee!"

x

x

x

MacLeod shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

_All right, I've known this moment was coming..._

He took a steadying breath.

Then he said, "Yosef...there's something I have to tell you. Something very important. Believe me, I wouldn't have left town _without_ telling you this!

_"There was no miracle at the Passover meal."_

"Wh-what?" Yosef looked utterly bewildered - and frightened. "What are you saying? Do you mean...you never saw or heard anything unusual? When you must have realized everyone else did?

"M-maybe it was because you don't believe in our God..."

"No." MacLeod kept his voice calm and steady. "I saw and heard and _smelled_ everything you did.

"But it wasn't a miracle caused by God. It was...an _illusion_. Caused by _**me**_."

_This, I can tell him. Because when he hears me out, he'll realize it's consistent with what he already knows about Immortals._

_He can decide for himself whether to share it with the Watchers. But I'm guessing he won't._

Yosef still looked stupefied...if not horrified.

And he was visibly shrinking away from MacLeod. "I d-don't understand. Wh-what _are_ you?"

"Just an Immortal! And no gods or demons are working through me!

"You know we don't have any special 'powers,' just by virtue of being Immortal. But you also know that..._abilities_...one Immortal has developed over a long period of time can be transferred to another through his Quickening, right?"

"Y-yes..."

"And you know there are people who seek out occult knowledge. Knowledge that may result in their developing abilities that seem magical."

Fortunately, there were very few in this era who _weren't_ open to that possibility.

Yosef gave a reluctant nod. "Yes."

"I've never pursued those studies myself," MacLeod told him. "Never wanted that kind of knowledge or power. But I've been forced to take the Quickenings of Immortals who did.

"One in particular...he was insane, a threat to the world, and I had no choice but to kill him." _Jacob Kell_. "He'd beheaded fourteen Immortals in the course of a week or so - none of them in fair fights. Nine of the men he killed had actually been unconscious when he took their heads. He'd caught the others off guard, most of them unarmed.

"The nine who'd been unconscious were extremely old, powerful Immortals - with various kinds of occult knowledge. So when I took the Quickening of their killer, _all_ of their powers wound up within _me_.

"I've vowed never to use those powers. But...at that Passover meal...I broke my vow..."

Now that he was actually talking about Kell - and interrupted meals - the memories came back in a rush.

_That young Immortal Manny told me about Kell's perverted "Last Supper"..._

_Neither of us could have imagined that I'd been present at the __**original**__ "Last Supper," and used __**powers I'd gotten from Kell's Quickening**__ to __**make Jesus vomit blood!**_

In a bizarre way, he realized, wine really had been transformed into blood at the "Last Supper." Or at least, something that looked and smelled and tasted like blood. In reality, it had probably been the small amount of wine that had been in Yeshua's cup, mixed with water drawn in from the atmosphere.

Suddenly, he found himself remembering Darius. _He always spoke reverently of the Last Supper..._

He'd been living in Paris in the months before Darius's death, and Darius had told him more about himself then than he ever had before. MacLeod had gotten the impression that his mentor didn't hold all the beliefs that might be expected of a Catholic priest. When he'd asked about it, Darius had said that he - like Ludovic before him - had become a priest "while beliefs were still in flux."

_He spoke reverently of the Last Supper, but in a way I thought was...cryptic. He implied it was only then that Jesus decided to fulfill his destiny and die on the cross. I think his exact words were, "Jesus gave his life for others. And that was heroic - but only because those others were in actual danger! Human life must never be recklessly thrown away."_

_It's almost as if he knew about...__**this**__..._

Now Yosef was concerned for _him _- standing over him, with a hand on his shoulder. "Are you all right?" He must have been visibly shaken by those memories.

"Yes." He tried to prove it with a grateful smile - but knew he hadn't succeeded. "Can you accept _how_ I did what I did - believe I'm not some kind of demon?

"I know that whether I _should _have done it is a separate question."

Sitting down again, Yosef said, "Yes, I can accept it. And since you had the power to do that, I don't know why you're even questioning -"

But MacLeod _was_ questioning, and he needed to talk it out.

"I want you to know I tried everything else first!

"When I talked to him in that alcove, I gave reasons why it wouldn't have made sense for God to deliver a prophecy through me.

"I tried to shame him, by making him admit that Yehudah didn't understand how horrible death by crucifixion would be - and he, who did know, wasn't planning to tell him.

"I argued that he couldn't possibly know for sure that the 'Kingdom' he believed in would be a reality, any more than he knew, at fifteen, whether Sheol exists. So he might be ending another man's very existence - his brother's!

"I told him that if he went through with the plan, he and his disciples would be haunted by that deception for the rest of their lives - and God couldn't possibly want a movement dependent on a lie."

_I also told him the "Kingdom" wouldn't exist sixteen hundred years from now. But that can be left unsaid._

"None of that worked, so I was desperate.

"But I'm still troubled by what I did. I've tried to tell myself _I_ wasn't deceiving anyone, because I didn't leap up and say, 'This miracle has convinced me your God is the one true God!' But that's splitting hairs. I really was faking a miracle, letting everyone think it was the work of God.

"Yeshua told me, afterward, that he'd come to realize - in effect - that the end doesn't justify the means. But I'd used deception in teaching him that.

"And..." He gave a long shudder. "There are moments when...when I really wonder...whether I _should_ have let him go through with the original plan. At this point, only one person would be dead. Yehudah, who'd _chosen_ to die. Now Yeshua and Kerioth are both dead."

Yes. Contrary to all reason, he was tortured by doubt.

The loan of his sword to Cephas told him history _couldn't_ be changed.

Concern for the trillions of humans yet to be born told him history _shouldn't_ be changed.

But he _still_ wasn't sure.

x

x

x

After a few moments' thought, Yosef said quietly, "Gershom...you're hundreds of years older than I am. So I can't talk to you like a 'wise old uncle' - the way I _tried_ to talk to Yeshua and Yehudah! But I hope you will listen to me.

"As it is, Yeshua died a hero - sacrificing himself when he might have escaped, but only by risking harm to others. That's how those of us who knew and loved him will always remember him."

_"Jesus gave his life for others. And that was heroic - but only because those others were in actual danger! Human life must never be recklessly thrown away..."_

"I'm sure you did the right thing," Yosef was saying. "You stopped the 'crucified lookalike' plan the only way you could. And I've given a lot of thought to what might have happened if they'd gone through with it.

"Let's suppose the Romans were intimidated, didn't try to arrest Yeshua again. Or if they did, he went 'underground,' and his followers helped him elude them. At least short-term, the plan worked out as the brothers had hoped - with Yeshua being exalted, and his movement attracting more and more people. Becoming, informally, a separate sect within Judaism.

"Maybe, like you said, he and his disciples would have been haunted by guilt about the 'big lie.' But maybe not...

"Remember my telling you Yehudah had come to believe _God had given the Messiah a lookalike brother_ for the _purpose_ of his dying in the Messiah's place? When one thinks about it, that's a very disturbing idea. A suggestion that God actually wants human sacrifice!"

_**"Jesus gave his life for others. And that was heroic - but only because those others were in actual danger! Human life must never be recklessly thrown away..."**_

"Many of us believe God tested Abraham for the purpose, ultimately, of letting that willing servant know He _didn't_ want human sacrifice. We've come to view it as unthinkable, among civilized people."

_**"Human life must never be recklessly thrown away..."**_

"But if Yeshua had once let that idea creep back in - even if it was only shared, at first, by his closest disciples - where might it have led? I can even imagine a sect that would secretly 'sacrifice' nonbelievers, in the hope that sending them to populate Sheol might induce God to send believers back to the world of the living. And when it failed, telling themselves they weren't sacrificing enough victims!"

_"Stop!"_ MacLeod was appalled - all the more so because, now that Yosef had suggested it, he too could imagine such a thing.

_Jews still sacrifice animals and birds, like the Romans and others. It's more believable that some of them could "backslide" now than it would be, say, a thousand years from now._

_And my imaginings are on a larger scale. Christianity will become a worldwide religion as the result of the Emperor Constantine's adopting it and favoring it - possibly just because he wants to unite the Empire under __**some**__ one religion._

_**Might**__ it, if Yehudah had died in Yeshua's place, have been a religion that practiced human sacrifice?_

_And if the outcome had been different - if the hoax had been exposed, Yeshua humiliated and disgraced, and no form of Christianity had come into existence - might Constantine have united the Empire under some other religion? Probably Mithraism, which was strongest among the military and would have glorified war?_

He knew he was trembling. "All right. I s-see your point.

"And I know I should thank you for convincing me I did the right thing. But...just now...I'm too shocked to feel thankful!"

Yosef smiled.

For some reason, it struck MacLeod as an enigmatic smile.

"I'm glad you're not up to talking," Yosef told him. "Because I'm just getting started..."

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"I came, of course," Yosef began, "to tell you about this 'resurrection' story that's taken on a life of its own. I still can't get over _that_." A bemused shake of his head. "But I have something else to tell you as well. Not as startling as what you told me, about your having caused our 'miracle'! But it is very important. _Especially_ in light of what you told me.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking...

"I know you've been blaming yourself for all this, Gershom. And I'm sorry about that.

"It wasn't your fault that Jewish prophets had conceived the notion of God's coming 'Kingdom on Earth' - a notion that seemed to guarantee _some_ sort of afterlife, even for those who die now - and Yochanan had embraced it.

"It wasn't your fault that Hosea's and Yehudah's father had taken part in an uprising and been crucified by the Romans - or that Hosea had witnessed it, at age seven.

"It wasn't your fault that those boys grew up without their father - Hosea bitter over his death, Yehudah coming to think of his big brother _as_ a surrogate father, whom he idolized.

"It wasn't your fault that Hosea bought into the 'Kingdom' idea, saw himself as Yochanan's heir, and sought to _speed_ the coming of the 'Kingdom' because he craved being reunited with his father.

"And it certainly wasn't your fault that Hosea and Yehudah looked enough alike to be twins.

"All those pieces were in place...

"Looking back on it now, I can see I put too much emphasis on your having given Yehudah that idea about a return on 'the third day.'

"That _is_ how he got the idea. But I think now - no, I'm _sure_ now - that if he'd never known you, he would eventually have come up with the same plan, completely on his own!"

_"Wh-what?"_ MacLeod hadn't realized where this train of thought was going - perhaps, hadn't let himself dare consider it - till the very end. Now he was stunned.

"I'm sure of it!" Yosef repeated. "Yehudah was totally committed to advancing his brother's cause. He undoubtedly would have thought about ways their resemblance could be put to use.

"And the supposed 'resurrection of a dead Yeshua' wouldn't just have been spectacular in itself. Yeshua could have claimed it was a sign from God that his movement was on the right course - and if the movement grew, it would speed the coming of the _general_ resurrection.

"When I came here today, Gershom, I meant to tell you that you shouldn't blame yourself, because everything would have happened as it did with or without you.

"But I thought you'd tried your best to stop Yeshua from going through with their plan, and _failed_. And then, God had intervened directly to stop him.

"_What you told me today changes everything!_ Do you see it? God _didn't_ intervene, and there's no reason to think He would have. He hasn't intervened in other crises in recent centuries.

"Yehudah would have conceived his plan, and convinced Yeshua to go along with it, whether or not they'd ever heard of you. _But __**only you**__ could have succeeded in __**stopping**__ it!"_

x

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MacLeod was so overwhelmed that he couldn't say a word. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he just managed to reach out and clutch Yosef's hand.

_Why do I feel as if it's __**Joe Dawson's**__ hand?_

He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Yosef was right. When he heard it spelled out by someone else - someone he trusted - he could see that given the specifics of the situation, Yehudah could easily have come up with the "crucified lookalike" plan without any input from him.

And it wasn't even a situation in which _any Immortal_ could have done what he did. The powers he possessed - that he'd so regretted being saddled with - had been absolutely necessary.

_I wouldn't have used those powers - almost certainly wouldn't have been there - if I __**didn't**__ blame myself!_

It did indeed change everything. More, so much more, than Yosef knew! He _wasn't_ morally responsible for the three-thousand-year history of Christianity...and he might have prevented something that would have been much worse.

Yosef said gently, "I don't know whether you believe in a God or gods. I hope you won't be offended if I admit that I think your coming here was part of a divine plan. Or as some might call it, destiny."

MacLeod tried out his voice, found it working. "I do believe in something...larger than myself."

_That higher level of Consciousness, to which all the "Mind" incarnated in living things may be related, like buds from a common stem..._

_We know of insects that can function as individuals, but also, at times, exhibit a "hive mind." And there's similar behavior in other species, where a "mind" superior to any individual's sometimes seems to be controlling what they do._

_So it's possible the same holds true for humans, and a "mind" on some level above my own did direct all this._

To Yosef, he said, "I wouldn't describe it as a God. But I do think I was sent here for a purpose, beyond my understanding. Call it destiny."

x

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They tried to relax and unwind. Chatted, snacked, drank wine together for an hour or more. They knew they'd be parting soon - probably forever. And while it was hard to "enjoy" anything in the wake of Yeshua's death, they wanted to have good memories of their friendship.

Finally, Yosef prepared to leave. He got to his feet, and as MacLeod also rose to accompany him to the door, he put a hand to a small-but-bulky pouch attached to the belt of his tunic.

MacLeod's eyes followed the movement, uncomprehending. He'd noticed the pouch at one point, then immediately forgotten it.

Yosef said, "Gershom...I have something here that I want to give you, as a keepsake. I felt all along that you should have it - obviously, or I wouldn't have brought it! But after what you told me today, I _know_ it belongs with you.

"I couldn't wrap it in any way - Hannah might have seen what I was doing, and it would have been hard to explain. So I'll just have to hand it to you, as is."

He reached into the pouch, and pulled out...a cup.

Handling it almost reverently, he held it out to MacLeod...

And MacLeod realized what it was.

He backed away. Stumbled and fell...and as Yosef rushed toward him, he let out a shriek.

Yosef's jaw dropped. "What's the matter? What's wrong with you?"

"_That!" _Pointing to the object Yosef was holding. "That's...the cup Yeshua was using at Passover!"

"Yes, of course! The one _you_ used, to make him understand that what he was planning to do was wrong. You can't possibly be afraid of it -"

MacLeod had managed to get to his knees. "No, no. But...you can't give it to me...you're Joseph of Arimathea!"

"I'm..._what?_"

MacLeod gulped. "You're...Yosef of Ramathaim-Zophim."

"Well, uh, yes. Of course..."

MacLeod was in tears again. _What's going on here? He __**can't**__ give this cup to me! According to Darius, it passed directly from the hands of Joseph of Arimathea to those of...of..._

Yosef had dropped to _his_ knees in front of him. Was saying things he was too confused to understand.

Apparently, Yosef thought he considered himself unworthy - _well, I __**am**__ unworthy!_ - and was trying to convince him he wasn't.

Then, to his horror, Yosef _forced_ the cup into his hands.

x

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And he suddenly heard another voice. Gentle, female. A voice that brought more tears to his eyes...but these were tears of joy, dispelling all his fears.

The woman was speaking in Scottish Gaelic. He hadn't heard that language for millions of years; yet he understood every word.

_"My precious son! Know, always, that your father and I love you._

_"And know, too, this secret:_ _**Your name is Ludovic**__."_

x

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The End


End file.
